You creep into my dreams.
Gnaw at me like a dead weight I can’t let go off.
When will it happen?
I’m holding on to a cloud.
I’ve made you my poster boy of perfection.
That I want to cut loose, sever, define.
I need realness.
Flesh, skin, bone and damnation.
I need a voice.
A sign.
Divination.
When?
