In a different universe I would be making warm pancakes this morning
rather than thinking of more reasons to convince myself to live another day;
and they are all petty, these bleak reasons, and manifest very little comfort.
During this year-long moment of litost I marvel at the parallel version
of my soul, a retired rantipole, with a kind man to love as day begins. 

She is humming an aubade while the incalescent summer shyly greets them with 
a toothy mango smile behind the mountain peaks and a diaphanous sparrow sounds
in harmony; and her lover, once asleep under cordiform covers, is now
awake due to the glint of the golden lining across his sleepy whiskey eyes;
and he grins with the tired sun because she has the figure of an elysian angel. 

The whisk and other assorted mixing cups have been carelessly piled in the sink 
but neither partner bothers to clean because of the sweet sillage of fresh breakfast;
and her lover graces her with a baisemain and she soon replies with the same.
They eat in a selcouth silence, comfortable with the painless lack of words; they
communicate with gentle eyes, rehearsing their ancient vows of redamancy. 

I am overcome with the hiraeth of this otherworldly craving for a life
where I am happily baking with a human I will someday die beside;
and I sigh with alamort in my hand-me-down bed that I refuse to rise from.
A lacuna remains where the orphic meaning of my existence would reside
and for now, I sit with clinomania and without a lover or pancakes.