We leave this bed
and we are two goblin faces
standing in a debauched, crowded city.
This place is as empty as we are
and spirits whirl, whirl, whirl
spitting silk. We get all caught up,
malaise and tangled.
What was once a mosaic is now
graffitti, but it is
a painful truth, just as we are.
Strangers are people, isotopes of a solid,
a soft web of criticism and denial,
but friends are a flora, blossoming
under the light of stars. Here,
we consume
love, true love
what am I? A stranger, a friend, a goblin?
Or just a spirit, spitting the silk
that keeps us apart
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