His words
hang in the air
like taffy

taffy that has been
by ghosts



the mystery flavor
, because, like,
his words are delicious
but we don’t know what they are exactly–
I mean, we have an idea,
but, really, we’re only guessing
, which is exactly
what he wants.

He rises from the couch
like a cadaver from the grave
and we watch with wonder
as he walks the halls
opens the restroom door
relieves himself.

His distant genteel stream
is the closest I’ve ever been
to a waterfall. I don’t
get out much. I
don’t know
what time it is
what time I got here
what time I ought to go.

He flushes the toilet
returns, smiles.
In the backs of our minds
we realize he didn’t wash his hands
but for some reason we don’t love him any less.
I envy his wings, social butterfly that he is.
I am the caterpillar. His primordial form,
so i eat and eat and eat and eat and hope
this pizza is enough to cocoon with.
Beer is inherently stale.
Love is inherently _____.

I don’t know what love is.

I pass out on the couch.
The butterfly leaves.

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

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