the morning comes too soon too fast
it takes away the symbolism of the evening stars
and replaces it with puffy clouds like puffy eyes
after tears are spilled across cold concrete
i remembered oysters this afternoon
by the waterside and the smell of seasalt
the disappointment from realizing that the taste
was too similar to being tossed too and fro in the atlantic
there was no poetry behind the crusted shell
no tenderness in the soft meat that marinated
in the chilled pacific
it is always so surreal in beauty, so picture perfect
but it is bitter and cold like the rains in october
i never could find a perfect costume