This morning I caught the blues.
I stood on the edge of the spoon with nowhere to go.
I tied my shoes and searched for my muse.
There she sat, distance postponing an ooze of stew.
With the end of the ladle short.
The end of the table so far. I sat.
I felt like a schmuck,
sitting on the edge of the spoon.
This hunger pang unfair.
Following me ladle to the tip.
A table clothed in decoration.
I envied the way it loathed.
Laying flat with no idea of what was going on.
It would never know the hunger that ached mid-spoon.
The ingredients that drove this passion.
The smell, the feel of steam that rose from the middle of the bowl.
The meat, the vegetables.
The brew of broth I longed to taste.
This space mid-spoon.
My heart raced in mourning
Standing on the edge of the spoon

Middle of Winter,
A flower sings the blues.
Painted red then brown.

The one you seek, hides.
You linger about searching.
Pink packets of sugar.

A leaf blew downtown
Amongst hands pages flew
Floating about a clean breeze

I remember you
The day we met dreams came true
Thanks to you I smile

I searched high for you,
I lost hope.
I buried my heart deep.

It was there that she kept me in the top most part of her eye.
A small room with a mid size window. 
A wooden chair that sat on a circular brown rug.
She kept the curtain open. Closing them only at night.
She'd flick the light switch on.
Bringing about photo album after photo album.
Pieced together in perfect memory.
She'd often fall asleep in mid sentence.
Reminding herself of why she loved this room the most.
Surrounding herself in the light that peeped through the window.
It was here where she kept me among all of her favorite colors.
Sharing with me the way she saw the world.
Soon as the sun peeped through the window