The sun writes me letters of love
with ink made of the purest gold.
Though I wish not to admit the truth,
it is my heart she gently holds.

My fingers yearn to caress her body,
her touch deteriorates my concrete walls.
Years on years I've protected myself,
yet at her sight, I embrace the fall.

My world trembles when she's not near,
and now it breaks apart.
She slipped through my fingertips
and burned away my heart.

Orange faded into a dull blue
In the winter sky.
Behind the houses,
It blazed bright
Only visible on the
Very tops of trees.
It looked as though
The end of the branches,
Reaching towards the sky,
Were on fire.
The iced twigs glowed
With a vibrant orange
Setting the neighborhood
On fire,
And my mind ablaze.

There is nothing quite like the morning dew.
Shimmering in the budding sunlight,
refracting light into a prism of splendor.
Present at the world's rebirth; lost in the hours to come.
Yet always emerging anew.
For this beauty is not one of mourning;
it is just simply the morning dew.

As the sun cries itself to sleep
His room is flooded
With warm, gentle, orange glow

The sun
Like her coffee-flavored kisses
Refuses to be forgotten

Sunset
Slip quietly and sadly beyond view

Sunset
A revelation
That end holds beauty too