Hindered by sober restlessness.

Submitting to the amber crutch.

The theme in my aching prose.

Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan;

That pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame.

The rebirth of mutual love.

The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly.

"I'm dying."

- "Is it blissful?"

"It's like a dream."

- "I want to dream."