A blur, a haze, an asymmetrical shape.
Poetry is born of things, not ideas.
But the image was abstract,
and what I really miss are your dimples,
the way your scruff moves when you talk,
the lamp you use to build your figurines,
little soulless puppets.
I’ll love you on command,
I’ll take any form,
and any form of you,
a dream that is subversive,
leaving only want.