Am I lacking all that something someone sometime summer gone (marshmallows melting, solstice stillness of something)? Am I waiting to hang upon it's nothingness? it's weight - it's weight empty It is sky there empty two thousand tons of empty sitting and restless and forever milling these questions in a lonliness waltz - placid like desert It is all without an echo, this emptiness It is all without the picayune games of love and lust and life that proceeds me What is it that makes it all so sure? What is it that makes him want me more - makes him want to surrender himself into me? Am I too ready or too mystified by my own hesitance? Where am I if not there inside of his mind running into him as veins of sweet? Where am I going if not there? I question this saving this saving this saving of me.