Periodically.

We see each other twice a day
.
Once when the light is streaming through the curtains
Once again, when the light through the lampshade illuminates your bedside
You hold onto me
, gripping me tightly
, as I move back and forth

Caressing the parts of you that are normally hidden away
Our time together is brief, almost professional

And I wish it wasn’t.
Everyday I see that, because of me, your smile is brighter and wider
,
But maybe it’s all in my head
And I realize that our two-times-a-day relationship

Doesn’t satisfy me any more, and it’s such a shame
Because I know that this,
Is all I get.

After leaving Paradise,
Damned Eve,
So silver bright,
Runs beneath a million suns
Searching for yesterday.
This is not forgiveness.

My funny valentine,
Sweet, comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable,
Unphotographable,
Yet, you're my favourite work of art.

"My Funny Valentine", by Richard Rodgers

'Twas you, a work of art
From your maker you shall not part
Is your figure, less than Greek?
Thou hast but one critique,
Science claim heart hath been seen
But oh, you poor thing
You, of imperfect gene.

These days,
I don't have to reach too far
To feel extreme sadness
Thus sink too deep.

But maybe,
If I drink the yellow paint I use
To paint those beautiful sunflowers
I can be happy.

On my way home, I glanced over at a parked truck and did a double take when I saw that this truck had a bunch of stop signs in the back. I wondered, why? Maybe, he collects them, gets them from odd places, you know the kind. Maybe, he's rebelling against the law, and stealing stop signs is the only way he knows how. Maybe, they annoy him by being in quiet places, where there's no reason to stop, or maybe because "stop" is too forceful a command, and we all know that one person who does exactly what you tell him not to do. Maybe, it's just part of his plan to build his own mini metropolis, and he needs stop signs for his smaller roads, because even fantasy lands need some structure too.

Maybe, I should ask him, but I think I'm better off dreaming here with pent-up breath than listening to a job description because his truck full of stop signs.

On the train platform, a tragic beauty exists.
Like everyone else, she has stars for eyes, but not like the stars giving soliloquies to audiences in the dark, but like the consummate balls of hydrogen and helium that are billions of years away.
That are billions of years old.

Often it seems like
I am supposed to love you
As I would the Sun.