A Dandelion By The Waysides

Midway the slope
where two clandestine faults seem to collide,
I studied your geography
like still life paintings,
I've read through you
as if your heartbeats are sonnets --
but blindly obeying the rules,
standing in two iambic feet,
losing rhymes,
and becoming more of a cliche.

You were as warm as springtime sunsets.
I've never thought I'd miss you this much.

Mellifluous,
I've never imagined I'd find a word
to describe your laughter.

By the waysides,
there I grow --
hoping to find more substance,
hoping I'd be amounting to something.
But waterwheels do stop turning,
and the alleyways
I once found poetic
vanished in a roadkill.

Gloomy and monotonous,
my pen has found words to describe
the street lights
and the highways
drowning me in transcendental nostalgia.

Those anxious alleyways cried poems one night --
a long-stretched onomatopoeia,
and I've lost count of the syllables.

When will you walk on these waysides again?
I might be writing about you again tomorrow...

...'cause it's the only thing
that fills the void of your absence:

poetry.

I still believe Sonnet 18
is just intense platonic love.

Emptiness...
I wonder, is that a synonym of being a dandelion?