He'd scratch words on metal,
if it held a lot of promises.
He'd hardly know the difference,
between the steel or the
change in his pockets.

There's rubber on the concrete,
along with several words.
The ones that mean the most to me,
are covered up with dirt.

I don't think he notices,
the worn out of his shoes,
or the way his faces moves when he laughs,
or the colors of the moon.

He paints colors on my arm,
while we're sitting in his car.
I wish I could do the same for him;
I'd hardly know where to start.

I could paint another portrait,
or draw another map.
It would probably prove useless,
but he wouldn't mention that.

He still has his daffodils.
I wear mine in my hair.
His are on his dashboard,
but no one sees them there.

I think he stirs daydreams,
into his coffee every morning.
And leaves a little  post-it note,
alone and by the stairs.
He doesn't think it matters,
he'll always leave them there.

He isn't much for paper,
just hum another tune.
Don't forget to hide the things,
that'll make the water blue.

Somehow lost in denim,
is a name, but not a face.
A beautiful disaster,
that cannot be replaced.

I lost all my adjectives,
I'll need to make my own.
To prove a little something,
how special you don't know you are.

He doesn't lace his sneakers,
but he might always have a map;
to set little guidelines, that,
he'll probably forget.

I always listen to his stories,
and to the way he speaks.
He doesn't understand why,
I do the things I do,
but that is nothing different,
and perhaps I always knew.

He handed me a picture frame,
while I painted him a Polaroid.
That didn't make sense at the time,
but now it'll clear up just fine.

I can't read the colored words,
I only see whats written dark.
He holds a breaking pen,
but hardly knows what lies inside.

Despite all the photographs,
or the hairline fractures in stain glass,
the colors resonate with me,
while the darkness flees my mind.

I'd hate to crack my pedestal,
or ruin a portrait painted pink,
the times I can't control,
might overwhelm and make me fall.

I'll leave stars and words on paper,
and tack them upon his door.
To almost prove to him,
that there's so much more.

He can't count constellations,
and he doesn't care for thorns.
He'll only deal with logic,
or the matters on his hands.

Stitched upon old denim,
is the story of us all.
He would hardly ever know it,
but his will never fall.