My lungs are one large, deflated balloon,
sitting somewhere in the lost chair.
I grew branchiae instead.
You perfectly fit to this porous body,
viscous in masculine, bogus, warm-heartedness.
My shoulders carry dark cloud,
exercising lifting of heavy thoughts.
I know I’m cute, but can’t offer you a smile.
Maybe an open umbrella?
You are amorphously
chameleon of the day.
Maja S. Todorovic