My clock is always wound,
no time to let the seconds tick away.
I grew used to letting the moss gather.
a fern bending to the touch of the unfamiliar.
I long to be sought through the spyglass of the one I love.
To be habitually loved is not enough.
To habitually love another is not good enough either.
The spirit of the pigment I have accepted as my own,
embraced abroad, swirls in a rainstorm down the sewer systems
of a town I wish to walk in at night time.