The woman who our intuition tells us will
look back, and who never actually existed
Pessoa
All those words of tight black dresses
As he drifts into other consciousness
Cars that roll down hills
To cross the stream at the forge
In another room
The boy sleeps
Utters tired words on being woken
All denominations are here
Thousands of untold dreams
Sit at the breakfast tables
For the writer it is the time to wait
Luxuriate in her hurtful absence
Selfless of his own existence