I was so nervous

There is no place
like the inside
of a silverware drawer.

I know you think so too,
somewhere safe inside you.

Every collapse
is like white pigment,

impossible, felt,
and tasted.

But there's not a chance
of a default
romance
to be wasted

and to melt.

Ladders' strings
sing an awful tune,

plucking the lullabies
of a cold
moon.

I've grown old
in yellow ways,
and should've kept,
should have not lept

on better days.

The smoke
of my existence

is a choke
at your insistence,

is the smile
of a grin
that tastes of bile
and reeks of sin.

I've gave you all
too many words too tall,

so I know you're sane
beneath the blurred lines of rain

somewhere deep
within my sleep.