There is something strange
about you. How do you
find such meaning in
everything? Like a wasp
stuck to a window
cleaning its fine red gears,
you fascinate and sting,
and fly away again with
the last desperate bit of my
sanity.
I, similarly, safely, move about
thinking it’s my best bet,
yet again you shock me with
your kiss – a thing
locked away
must we coax it out?

A little man with an
antenna and three white
stars upon his back,
listening to some lonesome
melancholy thing, who will
remember ?

written by me