Mr. Diamond has a heart of gold. Jovial smile and pearly white teeth. Friendly in greeting, and courteous. He is a big man wearing a plaid light blue shirt. He sparkles in his aura. He smells of clean soap and is accommodating to whatever you need. He’s trying to please; Holding the door open and saying, “Good Morning”. Yesterday’s thumb-twiddler could be a real person holding down a job and providing for himself or his family. Showcasing the emptiness of mind, which would then be empty except for that showcase. Skittish and nervous women do not know what to make of Mr. Diamond. They are expecting an ulterior motive that isn’t there. What they long for is a meaningful caress after a moonlight stroll and conversation that has to do less with dinner and more about Life. Bookish eyeglass’d women. Quiet to themselves, but they know they can be loud. Dead social codes must be recast and rewritten. Lots has changed. I would love to dream again of Jupiter and dance weightless through space, scared out of my wits but mesmerized by yellow and red planets, my heart in my throat. Seeing old, old wrinkled maps adorn the spheres of planets. Unfamiliar with it all, except for that one continental shape that looks like Greenland. Closing my eyes for a spell. It is not jewelry that I want. What is a ring? A reminder? A reminder, an anchor to now, to future? Love is the bond that will bear any weight. The ring is merely symbolic. My fingers will likely stay bare my whole life. And there is nothing I can do to really change that. Simple syrup, saccharine days I crave. Ghost writing a melody; A ghost is writing it. Noticeable albatross. When I dream, I’ve felt more pressure underwater than I have in space. Hearing one flat hum your whole life. Would you eventually go crazy? Or would you get used to it and drown it out? Letters to postbox memory.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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