Coco pukes on the carpet. Right
in the middle of the entrance hall-
way. But seriously, I’m not really
at my worst. I’m okay. I’ve got
love, a dripping upward kind of
love. One with a warm fire above
and a cool, deep water below. So,
basically, I do nothing. I post
a twentieth poem for the whole
world to see. I use Roman
numerals. XX. I have a guy
who doesn’t have to work at
Banana Republic, even though
they really want him there.
Instead, he paints fire and
water with drips from his
heart, which somehow
float upwards and are
always just above us.
While we sleep, any-
way. Where love is.
Love is unimaginable
words which intend
only to conjure very
specific individual
colors. In my heart.
In your head. For
our eyes (which can
all four see that color,
even without its pre-
sence) and in our
dreams.
What is a very
specific, individual
color which at present
only exists in my
head? And in
your heart?
