cheap imitation.

mockeries of lockdowns
& locking you up downstairs
would never do,
supposeitdids & whatifs
don't amuse you,
& my imagery is
useless unless
these things
make you itch
where your heart is.

so my prayers go out for you
through your inky jet blue
night
& periodically throughout
my rose-colored-bright
day
as well.

with the leftovers of my 24 hours
i contemplate your structure
& what it is that makes you wriggle inside
your arduously polished patterns.
lipsticks, chopsticks, matchsticks, eye tricks-
maybe that's what little yous are made of.

& maybe we will explore it together-
the depths of your psyche, that is.
& we'll pour over your inhibitions
to come in contact with divinity.

& it's possible that even in the afterglow
you'll continue to peruse clearly empty aisles
in a hopeful manner[?]
& i'll continue to wonder why you're surprised
when the curtain falls before your final soliloquy
& your breath is taken back,
just like that shirt you got at half price,
because it so failed to live up to
the designer's version.