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frank left me four pages
to share my monday night
dreams. i match his four
with tree rippened peaches
and raise the ocean as in
such a violent dream he
couldn't bare to trade.

it erupted from the colors
of sea side paintings. the
light blue of the sky
toying with the white
clouds and the dark blue
depths of the ocean capped
with that same tourmented
white. browns both faint
and strong depict the sand
and the people.

umar was packing, saying
how much the same
room had cost him. he
couldn't see the breaking
of time and the place
as i could.

waves crashing against
irrisponsible journalists
and bags filled with sand.

lights from the ferris
wheel flickered in and out
of view behind buidlings
amidst the growing fog
of this, a dark city.

the patio was lit too
perfect for the end of
the world, but i sat on
the soft cusions anyway
and watched him pack --
completely unaware of the
painting coming to life
behind him. the shinigami
crawled between us.

so this i understood,
the room was not cheap
for me either.