Should I write another batch of words
to appease and placate your ego?
Or should I write about us, when, and
those places we would go?

Honestly my hands grow tired,
they're simply losing steam.
They're starting to wonder if you're real
or are you just another bad dream.

Forlorn emerald eyes gaze out,
over fields in crimson hues.
Skin of buttercream frosting,
and a heart that sings the blues.

Wherein would I have found you,
if not I needed a drink.
Probably somewhere in the back of my mind,
where I go to think.