The road is long and winding like nothing you can imagine Too many off ramps to count but too few in hindsight

I don’t remember any anesthesia after talking with you but I woke up stitched back

I have whispered your name into the air so many times it has become the breeze that blows

You were the wind beneath my wings but I was Icarus so all I did

I say hello and you say nothing You may hear me you may even think of a response

I grew up in a house built in 1937 long before codes and regulations and sometimes

I see poems that need to be written scrawled in the shape of your smile and the lines of your face

All that I know how to do is write about death without dying and write about life

Passion doesn’t arise from 12 point Times New Roman but rather from ink on one page and another

I feel empty unceasingly until you come along and fill my heart to bursting