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."