Let me lie.

Coffee has been crippled by the doe - this trembling dry throat.
A cello haunts my chest like a fluid ghost in tapestry, and
I'm tormented with uncertainty of the drum's aim -
Celebration or War.

I don't mean all that I say:
"I'd rather be alone."

Photographs, neglected to keep me ardent for my isolation,
Are tattered when reflected upsidedown.
Now I see you are like my father,
Securing me in your Indian summer.

Blue eyes proud.
Green eyes storming.

Horror unlike gore is taunting me.
For in my last sight of you,
I stand small -
Charmed to be yours.

And now I am large and maladroit,
Unstable as to where I stand at all.