Midnight, simple breath of an apple blossom baby. Birdie’s gonna look for you, slavering crusader, he’s searching for you by the light of a laptop glow. Baby, I would hide from him, for Birdie’s lost his damned mind, thinking that love will come between us, that we’ve already set aside a moonlit walk to a Key West Cafe.

Midnight, hiding of a simple azure baby. Hide now underneath your ever shifting sapphire dream quilt, where Birdie can’t distinguish between the vague niceness of incomplete visions. Somewhere between a shaped greenery and a shady 80’s mood, under smalltown sunset, refreshing exhaustion–that would be the best place to hide. Summers oppress in utopias, utopian summers suppress youth, love and a gritty beauty. He won’t find you there.

Birdie can’t step through the glow, the buzzing words and screens of cold, logical white, to step between the worlds of night and tear a rift between hearts like a demon stepping through a hole in the Wall of Tranquil Stars and Evening, to stride the forgotten roads of a dreadful valley and find the cure for loneliness. He would find you, if he could, and bring you here to me; the emptiness of gardens, then, of skeletal seasons, might drive him away with fear of their alien beauty stuck maddeningly in his aviary head, where he wants only something sterile and practical. Love is not a practical play thing, my midnight blossom apple child, it is a frighteningly bright concept to me!

It is a time for the harvest of silent sorrows, where you are and here, in my heart. But Birdie doesn’t know that and neither should we. We should just keep quiet while he roams the valley’s darkened roads, alone and hellbent on perfection.

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