cramped in the close quarters of my logic
there's a painting party going on.
but i've brought some shellac to seal
the tender places, the cut out picture postcards
of memories i saved, savor, slave over so carefully.
their disconnected connections splayed upon my walls.
i should paint over them, i know.
i should cover them over with a nice, bright white.
but the colors, the patterns, they
are a blueprint on the bones of my house.
they are my proof, my logical proof of illogical theories.
my picture postcards of impossible possibilities.
the decoupage of dreams' dalliance
dances upon these walls, definitively,
the cogent evidence of our coup de coeur.
--bruised orange
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