The lava lamp 
forms orange wax women,
ever changing, softly pliant
to the quietest of heat.

Wound up 
in every insecurity,
the contagion of my paranoia
pulsing with light and sound.

The coarse fabric
of inconclusive laughter
rubs raw, any pretension of beauty,
chafes any open wound.

I am fifteen again.
I am alone and pretending
that's the way
I want it to be.

I am shivering in the car
that I went to wait in
for a night, best not remembered
to finally pass away.

My eccentricity, once so charming,
have led me the conclusion
for lack of a better course,
to seclusion, of the leperous sort.

I have become
so small, yet so clumsy
fumbling through shaky doorways
and empty hallways of pills.

I could swallow 
those colored pebbles of light
and lead my way toward
some other source.

I could swallow
my pride, my bitterness.
I could face
all of this.

If I could go home
to the shape of your body
to some warm embrace,
to an "I'm sorry"

best remembered
by the tempo of our love
by the beauty
of our strange harmony.

...by the end
of this farewell.

(c) 2003 by (++)Laura(++). All Rights Reserved