What is this missing? Thereís nothing beautiful about it,
The wistful gaze beneath the handheld moon
Under poetic lashes and sighs strewn
Across pages. Instead black stains
And face on fire, which burns
But doesnít cleanse.
Oh how I wish to dance, forget my broken back,
my duck taped heart and my hot feet
in the humid air, I want not to care,
but duck tape doesn't hold
in numbered circles.