There is this whir fluttering the air
with its strange tongue...

My retorts are bland,
like white rice...

I told him, dreaming is good
it spits stardust on our despondency...

You're impossible to love,
with your red tape and blue ink...

There is this thump in my chest
that's gentle, like the pitter patters of dusk...

I love you like a star, dear
with auspicious eyes and falling lines...

So many images
can fit in a sigh...

Perhaps it was the way your words
nuzzled themselves...

I have all this love;
here, in the palm of my hand...

The Pine trees keep surprising me,
with the way every limb reaches for the stars...

It seems I've misplaced
my most precious word, clarity...

It has been drab and bony
since your leafy palms gave shade...