Have a seat. An imprisonmint?
I spent some time refilling
your cinnamon jar today
it was one of those moments
I was behind my eyes
with my hands in front of me
they became rare
I am certain you cannot remember
the seepingness pervades
which is why I so often find
myself on top of the inverted hill -
sliced in our respective time-shares, top-
and bottomless -
which you most certainly must remember
if only embedded within
my misplaced bottle of cardamon oil
as a scent or a refractive layer
but I elaborate; my limbs
are gently moving away from me
they are probably somewhat
grown up now, leaving for the rattle
the snow brought in its wind.
Time is a mere orbit, a curvature
to keep a shattering track of, they told me,
and failure to do so -
 - well, anyway - I miss you.