He sits on a chair with three fingers,
A foot on his mouth; the other soaked in murky liquid.
Wrought after the stillness of dusk,
Lips trail toward his eyes to kiss.

Now he stands on a triangle of A's - Oblique, uneven, imperfect.
Rows of wistful photographs growing on the walls.
Like patches of dismal clouds of paint.

Skimming over the jumbled pieces
of a quiet and distracted love.
He seeks.
Among the photographs,
across the walls...

Round, gleaming, orange.

Is a side-splitting pseudo-heartbreak full of mirth.