No.....I can't even dare to hope.

Because it will always end in disappointment

and tears.

Somewhere in the mist of time
Upon a rain swept street,
I first walked you to your door.
Our goodnight kiss was sweet.

Magnolia blossom perfumed air,
the petals on the street.
A young man in the throes of love
-Or was it Love’s deceit?

Your kiss was like a butterfly
Alighting on a flower.
Delicate like gossamer,
Was that what gave it power?

No Carnal passion then or since
Affected me that way
As those kisses from my honeybee
at the closing of the day.

The water of life can’t warm my heart
The way you did your prey-.
Somewhere in the mist of Time
Ere all was swept away.

...and the needle dangling, I fall out

Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption.
The golden mistress beckons through dank alleys.
Trees and cars and man-made structures are no shield for the siren song.
Wringing hands, rubbing necks and itching forearms, I need that fix.
Blood spots on the sleeve.

Oh how my teeth cry out,
My arms plead with me,
The legs I abuse, stand rigid but ready to falter.
Feet stumble on ragged carpets,
My back arches and twists, aches and itches,
Eyes dart back and forth, are you my saviour?

Hand me the bag, there shall be no trouble
I'm too weak to escape you.
Snatching, grabbing, thrusting cash and powdered death from one ***** pair of hands to another
The trade off. I thank you my friend, until tomorrow.

Broken down, malting carpets
Stained mattress, I love you
The pealing paper and rotting stench
I love you too

My hands shake, fix me.

Oh the pleasure. Imagine if we were to erase that pain beforehand. Free me from my past. Euphoria.
.
.
.
..
...and the needle dangling, I fall out
.
.
.
..
...Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption ad infinitum.

A stone foot down
and there I was,
In the dust

Tightly is how he holds my hand.
Subtly is how I glance in your direction.
Within those stolen milliseconds I drink in every color of you my eyes catch.

The natural pink of your lips and of your flushed cheeks.
The blue, green, grey of your eyes.

I yearn to touch the yellow of your long hair, and marvel at the way it shines gold in the rays of the sun.
I love the faint purple under your eyes when you don't get enough sleep.
I even love the traces of brown under your fingernails from the earth.

Still, of all the colors and all the textures of you, the one I love the most isn't yours at all.
It's  the deep red you make me feel with even the slightest upward twitch of the left corner of your mouth, signaling that you feel my red even when I'm holding his hand.

It's the transparent recognition that you see me, seeing you.

Ah! An idea! Bouncing neurons bump
frontal lob to ear canal, rushing down
veins, pulsing through arm muscles and finger
bones until the tingle erupts for a pen.

Arms scramble, books over desks
shoved onto their sides, French homework flies around
Mozart concertos swirling up towards
ceiling fans and floating down, down, down ,down
until landing gently on, of course, a pen.

A pen- the holy instrument that will
transfer innermost thoughts and emotions
into beautiful prose and poetry.

Held by fingers, the pen is power- but
wait, the pen has no ink. (Gosh-darnit-all)