[cento]

I'm not sure what's worse: the waiting or the waiting room.
A slow and dry ' mouthed stretch of night
Tainted with the smell of recycled air, sleep and disinfectant.

You were walking so peculiar, like you had something to hide:
With hair slicked down; an otter rising through water
Resembling a well ' dressed corpse.

An orange Cyclops ' eye, scorning to look:
Pupils thrashing like salmon trapped in buckets '
My head full of lather and unusual thoughts.

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago,
You said it was the colour of hair that inspired you,
As if it were a scene made ' up by the mind.

Next to Superman and Batman, I guess I must seem tame:
Even though I promised the world and a dozen roses,
My heart is a still stopped geranium.

She leaves her mark, star ' dust, on his collar:
I familiarise myself with their false promises,
As the universe slides from my side.

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