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.
I push you away
And cry all the while
I act like I’m happy
The art of a smile.
Im chained to these thoughts that run my mind;
Scenes of us harmoniously intertwined.
I crave the touch of your lips on the curves of my neck,
As my hands trace your skin leaving no inch unchecked.
My fingers grip your shoulder blades as your chest is pressed against mine
And I feel the melodies of your fingertips that send pulsing shivers down my spine.
Our breath exhaled against each other’s in slow pattered rhymes.
Begging the clocks against us, to give us more time.
But I open my eyes, and as good as it seems,
My desire for you is only met in my dreams.