It is him ,
The man who writes,
the man who makes my heart beat
every night.every time I am with .
For I have passed out  in fields of green ,
all alone with rolling clouds black some obscene ,
the paper wet from The rain ,
my eyes bleary  with pain ,
I wring them out with his words
all dripping and wet ,
and play them over again and again
in my head .
my clothes may be  wet from the day ,
but these silent memories just wont
go away
prostate on this field that I lay ,
I clutch his words into my breast
the silent words that are as yet unsaid,
though wind and rain assail my mast ,
all wretched and alone when these words have passed
Yet somehow I shall still remember him  in poetic words  and distant dreams ,
in gardens that have not let been covered in snow ,
for there will my  crocuses grow .
And if he dies and we have not met ,
a thousand of his words ,
will still lay in my bed