she stands in front of me wailing inside; statuesque, freckled, sad smile, whimsical face, hard to describe. there was a subtle depth in her aura.
says, "i've given up on my life taking any faerie tale turn."

at those words,
i wanted to be everything to her.
i wished for the passion of romeo, the charm of casanova, and the beauty of dorian gray.
if only
to take her on a ride through the back streets of naples,
to traipse about the galleries of the louve,
to sleep on the sands of a riviera,
to love under a thousand magical moons.
but with my heart in my throat, I could say nothing.

in that moment, her eyes gleaming at mine, a sadness unveiled itself.
this doubt enshrouded in her crimson locks;
wanting so much of the unknown, but always staying with what is sure.
sixteen years old-
already bought and sold.

On blue May nights in the back, lounging on a swing and a composition in my lap, nearly alone but as calm and happy as with the company of others-
Carefree
-Dreaming a symphony of a summer. Traipsing about in a flaxen field of thoughts just shy of harvest; so swayed am I by the thought of hooky for this blissfully temperate tease. Treasuring the ink written upon my paper; dwindling school days excite on blue May nights.

I dance about the pub, gliding-
To tell you true,
my only wish
was to sway with you.

We walked through the big blue door
into the cool night air,
bewitched by the music and the moon,
and the crisp smell of a spring rain.

You looked past me-
with sad eyes-
past the empty squares,
past the lovers in the alleyways,
past the dreamers at the balconies,
your eyes
betwixt and between
loathing and loving.

By the light of the moon
our duet changed keys,
you stepped closer to see

This is nice.

if holding onto me
like the sea hugs the shore

I like walking with you.

would bring you to the place
you had been looking for.

*Me too.

Abbey of England
Built on bones of kings and poets
How dreary your gate looks today
But I fell for you, Westminster.

Your tower shinning pristine
in a light afternoon rain
There's something quietly mysterious about you
on a foggy London day.

Time burdens the wrist
With a watch always ticking.

Its gears and cogs fall into place,  
As the wearer falls out of time.

As if you actually owned any time
In a world of moments and memories.

Little girl
eyes shut
sitting with
the little blind boy.

Hands on her face,
the little girl describes
a big oak tree.

And the little blind boy
is beaming
on the cool May day.