Disappearing dreams, perfection in another world?

findingtimetowrite

She would do

Make do

A shrug as you count and find

Slightly wanting.

Nearly there

Almost perfect

Rather very but sufficiently nice.

Vainglory flows from the cups we have shared.

Satiated and  plump, we each go our way.

 

We shape this damp shroud between us

We cast it pearls to rummaging snouts

We batter some life in things long left dead

We scratch our wounds raw.

After the party

We linger and drain once-intimate gestures

of meaning, magic and trust.

Empty cups, vain promises,

Hopes unsated, we  just miss.

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