our lips will never meet
nor our fingers intertwine
and so bless my dreams
for indulging what's not mine

its time to say goodbye to paris
to the dreams of you/a typewriter/ an early morning cigarette
to you forgetting your coffee until its grown cold
to the muse I used to be with a glass heart and amber dreams
a golden room collects dust and unfulfilled daydreams
I erase our paris from my memory

I hate how some of my poems,
Get read less than others.
Even when my over all pain,
And suffering smothers.
It seems the most real,
Poems I write my feeling covers.