You are a frequent migraine.
I’m a dull head.
You suck my life. I sigh
and wait, for a time,
like a cold mountain waits
to shoot up sprouts in the spring.
Unveiled is your visage now
and my home is on fire.
I don’t have a right to put it out?
editors note:
A dotted line, empty; a look to dry the wettest ink. Find another underwriter. – mh