It's coming
That day
Where a swarm of humming
Twitching
Pulsing
Hearts (cliche!)
Are on the horizon

I'll rise late
As always
I'll cloister myself
As always
But maybe for spite
A promenade through the fermenting fields

There would be a park bench
In this hypothetical
Cruel what-if
In an abundant wood
I would sit
To smile
At all the items who floated past
To slip
Into the procession
Going down the spiral

Torture
For you
A darling who've I've known for
Well since I stole that binder
In good times we don't meet often
Too busy
But love
Love makes you gorgeous

But most likely
The un-hypothetical
現実 (genjitsu, reality)
That lonely forest chair
In a wet lane
Will be sat on
And thunked on
With the monsters puttering by
Not a trace
Of pink