If I would ever nest my blue thoughts,
they would inhibit a place within you–
that absolute point and the middle
where I could hear the thump of your white, glacial heart
behind the screenshot lost scenes
where still plays over and over
throughout the whole night
your sincere red smile;
but before we reach that burst of the orange, lost snapshot
the sweet and sour memory is caught
and tastes like vanilla punch on the night sky
bullied with the infernal dotty stars that fly me up too high;
How is to be when you are not any more?
My thought writer eager to whisper from the golden spring rhymes I adore,
How is to be split in a moment of a flute lapsed harmony wind
That recites between lost rows all unwritten lines in my dye colored mind?