The shadow of your silhouette lingers, tempting, tantalizing. It could be you, among the shadow-puppets dancing on the walls of these lugubrious walls, the walls of prison, the walls of this motel-room I’ve come to loathe. It could be you, your silhouette against the forests were fruits of opportunity still remain unpicked. It could be you before you went into the shadows, as the puppet-masters made you dance, pulled by syringe strings of back-alley degradations. It could be you, returning paper-thin but yet unfolded into that black paper crane hanging in the graveyard oak. It could be you and not a shadow of my bourbon dreams breathing softly on my unshaven cheek. It could be you, the shadow silhouette on the inside of my cave, it could be you. I take a swig from my bourbon bottle to keep your precious presence a little while.
January 30, 2014