Us

This is a sign of things to come-
a total inabilty to see clearly.
Distortion is not removed
from lies and I know that I'm not invisible,
but you sway into hardness.

I am not a phantom, a figment
an inconvience, certainly, but there is
something in the way the cat looks
at me that tells me I'm real
how can he only know?

The only shift is downwards,
plumment. You and me dirverged from go
but my ink held it. Not this.
The dry ink, answers, not this
melodious hold. You want black and white.

I'd prefer a grey woolen jumper,
cuddled around me, telling me it
will stop. That there is a ground
in the middle and that life
is not the word according to the illiterate.

You have your own agenda,
a titled suffix solo. You are
the world and i dance to your
slow beat. I am faster, but waltz instead.
You are a constant itch. Yet, no us.