The gold which exists in a shell, but minus the talking out loud parts.
Crying about misshapen furniture. Gladly.
Night peace and little bits of doorways.
Hue of dead tv screens lighting tapping toes,
all coated in comforters and sheets and silk.
Dark dancing in dim lit rooms.
Star gazing in cubed glow.
Yawning with pressed lips.
To no one.
Blue walls.
Back to that dream.
More about: Ivy Meadows
