that unique shape

To swim in a sea of coffee on a day when plain stretches of land pretend to be hills making you want to cry when you walk alone – after the memory of two round slices of forgotten cookies or biscuits is what a morning like this should all be about when the doors are closed with curtains of sugar syrup and thin wafers of dreadful dreams stitched together hanging from thin reed rods of metals hiding the insides of ink-stained souls from the silky sunshine of sparrow songs – who goes there hiding behind the shadows of yesterday – if it isn’t you, that is all right – but if it is you, stop right there – we need to talk