Sometimes loving the moon
Is better than craving the
Whole night sky.
190 mph winds
and yet the storm within
my soul is the one that
He's writing of me again.
Whenever he puts the pen to paper
I feel the words start to form on
My skin, the ink as it seeps into my
When he writes of the past, there is a
Sudden frission deep within
My wanton soul.
Moments of love and laughter, dreams of
Forever in a range of never ending mountains.
When he writes of now, there is a shiver
Down my spine that renders me frozen in Place as he scribes his pain, as his tears
Make the ink spread into the fiber of
If by chance he writes of the future,
Butterflies of ink are born in the pit of
My stomach and they only take flight if he
Breathes life into the words.
And I think he wrote of me today.
and all we were,
with all we are,
a pair of shoelaces left
undone and I
am the only one tripping
"You're easy to love,"
a voice rasped.
"And impossible to own."