sweet blue dreams.
how I miss the feel of your shoulder
pressing in on my worn frame.
I am not a crow, and I won't linger.
yellow dusted windows and faint scratches.
you are but a simple muse to me now.
cracked faded pages.
ever driving. ever haunting.
my heart is shallow and full of red flowers.
I am not a lover of many words,
but those contained within this
nimble writing are yours and yours alone.
where is your face.
if I could stare into it one last time I'd bloom.
combust into brilliant primary colors.
you were a brief encounter on a large whim.
what are you now.
a poet.
a lover.
the latter would rip me in two.