Tantalus in a garden sculpted from laughter and light
A hesitant hand reaches out to trace the sunlit haze, to trace the dripping clouds, to trace the lines on a butterfly’s wing
Wishes wilt on tall green stems
A golden sword ticks a lazy metronome murmur above my head, each measure a melancholy reverie
Cataloguing catacombs in a hasty scrawl as if to explain, as if to apologize, as if to say “I love you”
A rainstorm left forever unspent, thunder skipping over cracks in the sky