"I think that it might not be so
impossible as it seems."
Her words seem so potent
in her mid-morning high
of delirious confessions
and paper doll-isms.

Spoken like a true addict;
another pipe dream
of acid laced lips
and kisses that radiate
sixteen colors of the rainbow,
and a few more
when placed at the right angle.

Her eyes only
a sea of disaster,
drowning any that attempt to wade
with dilated misconceptions
and glassy premonitions
of a gentle tide
and calm waters.

Hands that covet
handfuls of paper aspirations
and shake beneath the weight
of the smeared ink and undotted i's
of her actions;
consequences;
regrets.

But nothing is impossible in her mind.
And maybe she is right,
for we have drowned in too many bathtubs
and made love with too many ghosts
to know the difference
between reality
and fiction.

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