Sour Green Eyes

I make mistakes based on illusions that I believe in.
I make assumptions based on the rules that I’m given.
Drifting down a river made of hydrogen and fossils.
Fossils of those that have felt the acid of my tears.
The pieciring of my tongue, in more ways than one.
Words as sharp as the edge of the nightstand where you rest your keys.
Next to my water bottle and the empty picture frame with the caption.
I look through google cardboard reaching for the stars that I see in your eyes.
And to my surprise when I remove those goggles you’re gone.
Pieces of your hair remain in places I never search.
As if I sense that you’re in the most obscure of places.
Everywhere except in front of me.
Everywhere except where I want you to be.
A hologram of a time before that volcano errupted.
The green haze of your eyes pierced through the veil.

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