soft

drifting and floating and fading away…

the little king
harnesses up his favorite cloud.
he mounts sidesaddle
and leaves for the mountaintop.

it is blue in the distance.
the thought of
perfect lover with blue eyes. the lover who has never existed.
perfect lover may be on mountaintop?
the little king wonders out loud
licks his lips and relinquishes the taste of funny words.

an imperfect lover
also breaks into the little king’s thoughts.
with soft hair (that curls slightly)
and a soft voice like red velvet;
who is soft and easy to fall asleep against.
but who is not his lover.
yet.
he wonders, but to himself this time.
i wonder what imperfect lover
sees when our eyes meet?

the little king
drinks from his flask, a bitter mixture
of doubt and hope.
he pats the softness of his favorite cloud,
and encourages it not to rain.