wandering aimlessly through languid days, clicking through
channel after channel, flipping my book pages,
eating all the sliced turkey,
fighting kitten wars with my feet . . . dreaming.
waiting for something to rouse me from this
tangled reverie, tear me from my photographs.
waiting for someone of your calibur to appear out of nowhere
and be my bestest summer friend.
appeasing my family, whom i never left,
celebrating the kingdom of the beauty of manual labor
and polishing my home with my own sweat-drops.
this is my garden, this is my home, this is where
i have been subject to the same memories, the same small cell,
and escaped in my own time.
i submit to your presence, but i know
my inspiration be fired from your spirit
and your spirit be consumed
with my own feisty annihialation of your cursèd shadow.