All visions of me
are drifting murmurs of a far-off river,
or a city heavy by streets of recurring paths,
but never of flowers to mean you,
who forever I don't deserve.
what is it you see?
Perhaps, a surging image of the next moment
of who I am yet to become
never who I was
with every flaws that sting in my dream.
You, still at large
figuring what I am not
My depths struggled in the night
not in your pillow