If time moves,
the spark will remain live
in space between the eyes.

You were a concept
what didn't fit for you.

We say it casually―
the ghostly pouncer
was a blight.

How the appetite to live
gracefully was, becoming stronger?
But the eye contact was waning.

You look back at
your footprints. Where they
had taken a wrong turn?

The triangle refuse
to play chess. Nobody was
taller than dice.

Inch by inch I
followed you, when I
grabbed at you it was a cloud.