a ceiling
and a sinking feeling
that the purple around the sun
is imaginary,
and, actually, the night road is
dark circles around my eyes.
my smile lies;
it likes lying.
a petrifying thought of fakeness,
and that grapes
were never sweet or sour.
it was simply one hour of a nap
when i dreamt of a Huysum canvas
yesterday on a lonely evening
or the day before;
all i am
is tired feet on a cold floor
and purring of a warm shower,
sour grapes
and my smile that fakes
happiness