Spring equinox, time balanced on the small end of the egg of her attractive pain. I'll topple tomorrow!, she cried while ascending a rope to the sun, her black shoes tiny. Shell to shell through the very egg of me she climbs, piercing yellow rays of yolk,
the lucky neophyte.
Her face, my heliotropism, weather permitting.
The squirrel wheel of recurring daydreams callouses their small clawed feet, brisk around the recurring fantasy of arrival
the infinite litters eternally rebirth into disappointment amidst squalor, the failure to learn.
Her attractive pain, I'm such a baby and continually regressing.
The loneliness hurts, the lonesome pining for her prettiness is wearing, and the wish to kiss her is frustration in a nutshell that gets dropped on my head by a bird six hundred thousand times a day and never cracks,
no release from wishing comes
only weariness and fading
and then the jolt of her.