is there something I can do

one thing, nothing 

that scent, that perfume

wafting, grating

 

no one else in the room 

moods talk, memories start

everything melts into you 

sirens-crooning-blues

 

curing the past 

without your hands

signs dance 

every color in black

 

curing the past 

bending spoons

imaging this world 

feeling the solitude

 

is there nothing you want from me

pictures talk back 

nothing you’re desiring 

feeling this lack 

 

could I buy something unexpected

every desire predicted 

could I imagine something new 

with infinite variables