I hate writing about friggin' love. I hate it...But I still write about it...
Here you all go. I wrote this last month.
Lost in Thought
Washed out sky,
Wish it was my heart,
-Empty like that.
Pointless to wonder,
Is she thinking of me now?
At this empty time for me.
Does she remember a drive we took,
Or a walk we made together?
What about the time we were in the tiny kitchen,
Together, washing and drying dishes.
Perhaps I’m somewhere in her mind,
In some crumpled, folded maze of thoughts.
I live in that soft puzzle,
Lost. Like a small porcelain figure,
Souvenir from some trip,
Perched on a dry wooden pedestal.
I’m stuck at the dead-end of her imagination.
Sometimes she roams into the closed space where I reside,
She pauses, then turns and leaves.