mrrrow.

Laughing gas won’t make you laugh.
these jumbled words, you speak
of writing tea
and sipping
philosophy
with but one cube of sugar.
And then one day
we float away
on rafts of
roses white,
“Paint them red!”
she mumbles soft
in a booming voice
she screams.
and your regrets follow me.
Puzzle pieces tied
with the lashes of your eye
to the beds of my toes.
Balloons on your wrists,
pulling pulling
up towards the grassy sky
sink in the soil:
your feet.
Feet of trees,
eyes lemon yellow,
Birds fly beneath my feet.
Yet all that’s left
is the fading grin
of the frowning
Cheshire.