a monday night.

my hands smell like saw dust from helping you build,
12 pieces, one frame, starry booth.
you are tired and stressed and i'm floating on a cloud,
i wish the april rain would come sooner and wash away your worried brain.
no pain.
no gain.
lie.
untrue.
i search i search the grain of the wood intently,
the same the same way i search your wrinkled forhead when you raise your eyebrow catepillars.
close those ocean eyes.
quell'oceano guarda.