Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
December connects to January, So does my infatuation, flowing into this year. This is the year of last year; the road is not yet clear.
Late, is the color of your eyes, of night In an altar lined with dim lampposts, I'm certain on the occupation of an owl (almost).
Your words gush in contrasting genres: Handcuffed with humor, made with memoir And an age of angst in the last teenage choir.
The day changes dates, the ink of your spirit Bleeds onto the dates without a flutter, nor a falter, And I cannot look through the pages' palter.
Gems are only, but for a short while, and so Is the presence of your essence on my peasant, I guess love is like the rain; rain on the crops is a present.
Early, is an expression on your face, of morning air In the smoke-heavy space, hear your breath pattern And I can draw them on a moon of Saturn.
I wish in the consequences of a glimpse Of you, like a sparrow in a clan of princes, You are what you are: a vintage—
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
