Four Fifty Five

She is not his; he is not hers.
She, her heart is pounding gently
like the floating whales in the Pacific;
and he, he is lost in the pond of lust.

The seconds are dragging into decades.
The secrets are turning into goddamn lies.
The diving bells are on strike,
so are the embroidered angels and the butterflies.

Cry baby cry;
till you are lost as the
midnight light is lost in dark.

Jump if you dare;
into the golden daffodil fields,
till tears stretch in never-ending lines.