sweet dislocation

the saline signatures of your last night's goodbyes

parallel your wandering wonders' unforced tight sighs

when your lungs sunk slow

to your knees, weak-grown,

as those reinforced moans are being overdone

and you can't help but notice your knuckles have lost colour.

so in your fetal un-comfort, you loosen your grip

on your fled wishes and times-turned-to-memories

to catch your breath and

smell the foggy future of a sweet, new dislocation.