  "The Morning of My Forgoten Loves" This is the morning of my forgotten loves, blown like bright soap bubbles out, out and away to pop and dissipate. They have left me like rain from a cloud, scattered in muddy puddles and runoff. This is the morning of my old forgotten loves, none quite half-beautiful or fit to wear the throne, but all rainbow bubble, hot breath and dishsoap. But you rest like a brick in my pocket, and I think, better a brick than a bubble. You can't start building a house with soap suds. 
