Today is

Today. I can only pretend--
I can only make-believe that you are not. That I, am not. That there is not--us, or you, or me--that we will never, really. Be.
You come around, every now and then. And I think it's kind of all. Right. Right now.
And you come around every other time, and you spin these syllables like papier mache on a pedestal--of titanium daisies. But what the fuck is that. Even.
But you. You don't unravel like the rest. Paint pretty pictures with your silhouette on a cloud that I cut from cardboard two nights ago, under that moon.
That moon. You (my mother didn't like this word/I think i'm over it as well. Suggestions welcome).