i promise to make use

spring lilacs smell like floral
fragrance from the cereal aisle
and the woman who walked by
when i was twelve in wal-mart.

i promise to make use of my rash passion
and the stranger living inside of me.

my tears pour down with replication
and the pixelated drum roll
of my eyes blurring into a screen.
where do i belong
in this light breeze of april?

the cushions of my landscape
have come to haunt me.
my fantasies have turned
into those which happened

to those older
under the same hazes i feel, yet i am empty
stomached, empty blooded, like nothing else.