Lunch? No reply.
Appealing counteroffer: Park?
Ah, I see the game you’re playing.
Reciprocal response: cautious entreaty.
Drank the Kool Aid, too sour. Acidic.
Vision explodes beyond the mechanics,
The gears of our tacit negotiation.
Phantasms convoluting in a sea of trichroic something.
I continue, convalescing, regrouping into myself.
You’re still away in dream world, dancing impossibly.
Goading tease, you. No ruth of which to speak.
You, a water sculptor when you know my velocity.