Why do I wake up embracing a ghost,

with the whispers of bittersweet dreams

echoing in my heart?

Why do the silk sunbeams on my back

feel like an awkward yet familiar goodbye,

given freely beneath a foreign streetlamp?

I recognize the symptoms of my madness,

I try to cure it with self-hate and cold logic,

but I surrender to the fever, and burn happily.

The sound of birds, of rain, of wind,

of leaves falling gently from their lofty homes,

dying gracefully on hard streets,

all the wonders of my mornings

I give to a vagabond Venus,

hoping she will carry them swiftly

to the soul across the sea.

I give a piece of my bleeding, red heart

to the electronic Eros, the soulless lover,

letting him carry it beneath the waves,

my emotions in bits and bytes, ones and zeros.

I don’t know if ethereal flitting of feelings

are stronger than the world in the way.