string together sickly sweet sentences
that become a sonnet,
until it’s blank verse soliloquy you’re trying to create.
anticipation has a tendency to stack and reach
and work you over into a ball of insanity.
your skin is pale, sallow and rubbery.
kneading you like soft dough,
ready to rise when cooled or cooked.
whisper to me;
be my conversationalist.
be yet still until you rise.