Sweetness
I know your just a dream and an illusion illustrated by a fevered mind and painted by a broken heart
Dark grey eyes in a black and white photograph of something innocent with a lustfull wonder and a soulful gaze
And you are in beauty and love the definition of perfection
and maybe I'll fall in love or find madness or maybe it will be a little of both and it will be an impossible thing made possible
I could love you past the infinte unknown and through the nothing of what comes next and find you in my past and futute lifes and love you more each time
Yet if I reached out to touch you and moved my lips in front of yours and hesitated for a moment of what felt like eternity
and then moved again
in an instant would you not disappear
and fade
The paint dryed to dust and carried off with the wind of this waking dream
and the illustration turned to mist
and ghost of memory
Then you would be gone and the love would still burn over the surface of my heart and your picture would still flicker in black and white on the walls of my soul
The smell of gun smoke and gasoline to remind me of an impossible dream
And if you instead reached out to me and hesitated and then...
Would our worlds collide
Would you pull me into dreams and illustrations of books and
tales of impossible love
Or would you be made real and be of flesh and bone and blood and passion of something soul and wonder and innocence
Or would we both be pulled somewhere inbetween and walk a silver line above the sky and clouds and find our story already written in the stars
Our every chapter and our ever time and our every name and our ever love

Its easier to fall for a voice and a picture
than a women sitting at the end of a bar
stirring lonely ice  
in a glass full of whiskey and dead dreams
The imagined love hurts less to lose
where kisses shared were just painted illusions
and wet colors left under the skin of a dream
Where the reality of the illusion bends
and sways to the whims of a foolish heart broken
and stitched and broken and stitched over time and clichés
And love is kinder in fantasy
than in shared beds with lonely souls
just putting their bodies through the motion
of the memory of past ghosts
of living passions from nights under a moon long gone
And the bar has filled and ice has melted
and women stir dead dreams
and wear whisky flavored lips
and maybe if I didn't suffer from a debilitating shyness
I would mention the strange weather
or say anything at all
But the solitary ride home is more tempting
and I have a picture and a voice
waiting on a nightstand next to an empty bed
with a comfortable dream
to stitch back the pieces of the dead heart
that somehow still beats inside my chest