Hat
floating
in the air
cradling a body not there
Especially yours
Majestic mystery of mastery nestled in finely kept roses
That (probably) smell the same as when you were here.
Is it wrong?
A museum made of house
A patchwork of was and is and may still be
Are we all living sculptures of our own impending legacy?
Soon to be deconstructed and rebuilt into something that wafts only a haze of I
An immaculate illusion
Flirting with your feeling
Only managing something fleeting
Pretty
But not real like the sketches that cradle faint lines of silhouettes living and lived.