oh. sorry, my very best friend. you look so tasty-lish.

i ate a photogramonster on 47th. he told me to chomp chomp before i chomp chomp'd. later, while i was rolling on my table a coaster for my milk, i made my maginations make and make and maginate until they made me and my photogramonster on 47th. he told me to chomp chomp and, with my maginations, saw the sandwich 'tween my fingers.

the sun seeks
dramatic silhouettes,
the way to appear charming.
a current opens for another,
having forgotten to hold anger close,
letting all the reverence rush in.

the result is a silvery dazzle. a film
upon your outfit,
which no amount of sweeping sheds.
you step out of it
to the skin, into a bled white
instance of perfection.

the objects of the cast bow obvious.
now absence as aperture,
every breath struggling to fill itself in,
having forgotten
all separation is escorted
by a jubilee of horns.