I hibernate like a bear, but not from winter, from the world.

Metal strings,
triangle pick,
painted board,
mind plays tricks.
Humming noise; the silence clicks.

Dust on frets,
bent-down spine,
aching chords,
blurred by time.
Still, I hum... though not in rhyme.

I made up two things,
People — or lovers’ rings.
One writes the lines,
The other paints the signs.

So let me share how they feel,
Let me present them as if they were real.

Dorothea or Niki — the dreamer in me.
Doesn’t know which she is anymore.
She’s the version I write in my poetry.
Me as someone to adore.

She speaks in stanzas, dreams in rhyme,
Wishes for a love to last past time.

And then there is Poppy Piume,
She’s a lot like my real world friend.
But in this poetic arc that isn’t her doom.
Here — we are the a story with no end.

She answers in dreams, if not in the day,
A voice I imagine when I drift away.

In my imagination there is no goodbye,
But in sad reality she doesn’t even reply.
So I write, as she paints, and I try not to cry,
And I pretend our silence is just a lullaby.