The Era of Trampoline Floors

The emotions that bubble up, Fizzing from your finger tips, staining the already worn carpet as it licks its lips across the floor. Passion doesn’t spit both ways. Would it feel like dancing? Eyes holding onto another with hands discovering new found love on the small of a back. Or perhaps more like breaking. Love snapping into sixty seven bits sixty six mice greedily grab, devour, while one bit is left watching the other dregs collecting dust. To have heart and soul ripped from its cage and placed before the eyes which have been stained with sin for so long. Arms carrying ink cartridges to a lover. Dripping dry the entire way, so that no new romance novel will come to existence, and the empty printers will, too, cry themselves to sleep. One set of two irises, two pupils is all humanity receives to view a universe so massive the eyes of God would need broadening. “But no, passion doesn’t spit both ways” No bouquets of hyacinths to fill the summer daze. Our weakness turned blue as the sea where the muted telephone was fed. Refusing to feel anything but lonely, yet never as alone as the hopeless romantic.