All interaction with the living kind is made up of disappointment right under the veil of other sentiments and must be avoided as far as possible
a glimpse I told
myself, poor!
just that! I behold,
nothing more,
of you.
A holy rite,
wishful righteous treat
Compelled I,
by something bittersweet
something new.
Not more than
a glimpse I told
I find I am here
lost in you, tenfold
you have no clue.
The shade you are
is wine, each sip divine.
we don't have such pleasures
at the bottom. I pine
this too ends in blue.
This is my day 95 entry of the 100 days of poetry by
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goddamnit.