I write about you as if doing so will make you real
Haven’t met you, yet I know how you make me feel
Or maybe the reality is I have and the want is from memory
Pen to paper should imitate passion inked on you by me

No doubt that I am foolish, time winds and leaves us scarred
As if contradicting doors with a dozen locks, yet still ajar
Reminiscent of bruised fruit, but the heart only feels hunger
With you satiating the wanting and the ever driving wonder

And the poetry has gone on so long I know not if your real
I have no regrets, as the pen bleeds only what I feel
My mind like a drunken witness with an unreliable memory
With that in mind, I paint dripping words with my visions of you and me

Whoever you may be