You know me, a laconic tree, draped in ornate malaise.
You know the mussel shell and periwinkle crunch beneath sandals.
You notice the moon, as if there is nothing else.
Arduous days, my thoughts turn to your hair, the tingle of your fingers down my back.
You carry broken pottery in a pouch, keep it close to your hip.
You use them for your art, a new mosaic made from pieces of my artifact past.
You make a white wine toast to our own fin de siecle.
These times are met between wistful stares to the sea, and tear drops on the forest floor, yet I have your staid bosom, where my dribble cup is filled with your luminescence.
You see my psychic flotsam and jetsam drifting lethargically into the sunset, one iceberg at a time.
You see what no one else can.
You hear the thoughts of trees, like me.
Tired of Pop-ups? Premier Membership is just $1.25/ month.
