Kiss and you shall feel the air.
My vanquished ghost. No.
My lingering tome. The smell
of our home. Winter Twenty-Twelve.
I am still there. Burning the spiced
cranberry in your heart.
You misplaced your feelings in
between moments of sipping booze
and placing your glass down upon
the wooden credenza to stain it.
For your breath can vanquish
unattainable concerns,
or Hollywood human existence.
The transitory bourgeoisie.
Now can you
kiss the air in the time portal I walk
within?
Or make my electrons vector.
Bring your insecurities to flesh
with courage.
I live within your DNA.
Humble, Humble Love 