My little runaway,
You sneak into my bed
under the cover of night,
and hide yourself under my blankets
till the morningtide.

The soft blue glow of dawn,
laying across your gentle face
like a sheet of silk.

No sounds in the room,
just the beatings of our hearts.
Two souls in perfect isolation.

Like the first early notes
of morning bird's hymns,
a single, soft,
euphonious note,
gently woven into a restful
sigh of slumber's gratification
softly kisses our morning
quiescence to life.

My heart skips two beats
at the sound of your sleepy
little honey-sweet voice,

"..will you marry me.."

The whole room seems to smile.

Your little arms wrap snugly around me,
your apple leaf eyes look up at me,
begging for just one more hour
of loving rest before you have to
run away again.

We spent today singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.
With naive hearts we wrote undying love songs
to transient deciduous souls.
We mockingly sat deaf at the foot of wise men's lectures
while we barked mute revolutions.
Brains thrashed in dormant bodies,
celebrating enlightened states of nothingness.
We played with our lives
the way a child plays with a gun,
and we spent today singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.

We come to you with bright shiny faces
and wounds still fresh from the womb,
grabbing at anything cool.
We pretend to be naked and drink from the fountain of delusion.
The fountain of truth is too cold to swallow.
The castle gates of benevolence have been opened,
and with hedonistic indoctrination
we crash into the streets
in search of instantaneous wine and blind absolution.
We bathe in drive-through lust.
We crave the warmth of a cold pillow.
We dine on theoretic chaos
and pay with inherited coin.
We caress the blade of uncertainty with our tongues.
We adore our futile reflection in mirrors.
We scoff at inevitability.
We will always be hungry.
We will always want a better place to play.

I do not bewail the transient era that is youth.
For in it, I was blind to the grandeur that is life.
I was ignorant to love,
and incognizant to its importance.
Beholden to no strength,
nor wisdom, nor virtue,
I possessed no constitution that would urge nor encourage me to continue to love,
even in the depths of love's absence.
My existence bore no understanding of the gravity of human life,
the influence of trust,
nor the sageness of compassion.
Tomorrow was assumed to be guaranteed
and there was no urgency to my short time alive.
All that was before mine eyes,
the air in my lungs,
those who stood beside me and those now gone,
were all taken for granted.
Tonight, these hot sea winds blow the amber coals of my cigarette back upon my face as unwelcomingly as the unwanted memories of my imbecilic youth.
It miss it not.
Let the clock spin.
Bring me those ephemeral decades,
for they only make the wine taste sweeter.

Oh, my little apple sweet hummingbird
the many ways I could eternally brand my memory
into your moistest of dreams.

The ways I could massage your soft thighs with my tongue,
and as a newly sprouting tulip bud
tenderly weaves through its young, enveloping petals
part your two, warm, wet butterscotch lips
and caress the depths of your most taboo desires.

I could ****** into you like a train
with gushing waves of carnal lust.
The flavor of exploding stars
rocketing from your honeypot
to the most love starved chambers
of your throbbing heart,

crashing the ideas of love and lust together
with such passionate force,
not even god could tell them apart.