daintily sitting on a chair, taking up less space
a hollow parakeet of your creation.
bright, painted eyes
straight-lined smile
we'd sit and talk,
my thin wrist balancing a china cup
as dainty as the imbroglio we had rolled ourselves into.
"i dreamt about petrichor," i thoughtfully added, breaking from my script.
"i guess i miss the unity."
tall and serious, your eyes darken.
with a lick of your forefinger
the page of our script is sharply reversed.
this palimpsest is beginning to wear thin.
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