Who the fuck builds a kaleidoscope
out of real glass these days?
my day dreams used to donate the most
distal dilated shades of dishonest daze.
now my eyes are full of this lukewarm liquid
glazed with life's genuine golden eyeliner.
but this time, without lies
it's blood, or tears. let's finish this cliche,
or sweat.
freeing my face from gauze tomorrow
i'll be awash in monochrome,
remembering two colors in an anxious panic:
the blue between the stripes of your oxford
and the tan of your skin.
answer, a romantic.
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