This heart needs you.

It is made of wood
You bend and pinch
your eyes, your head
Your notes are in the sink.

A sharp pencil, an inkblot
a page, few books maybe
You lie down and draw a face
And rub it off "it's crazy"

And you will grow 60
with your desk
bend your head down
like the rest

So before you do
You need to ask

"Can you fly?"
"I want to fly."

A grey-faced lady sits solemnly on a bench
For the fourth night in a row.

The twilight radiance casts a peculiar shadow
Around her presumably turquoise jacket
With bursting pockets of paper and pens.

Encircled by brightly-coloured books,
The lady, for the first time in her bench lamentations,
Raised her head and looked over to me.
And as our soft gazes collided, we noticed the darkening
Of the scarcely visible Moon, and the resultant
Gloom which consumed the surrounding greenery.

Though, she, with dreamy eyes, whispered so sweetly –
"I'll see you soon",
As she stood and became one with the encroaching dark.