there are whiffs of your perfume
at the cinema, in the elevator, sometimes even along the sidewalk
where no one ever strolls and
my thoughts of you
cloud the peachy skies in my mind ever so faintly.
it is a given that i yearn for the high-hanging fruit from the tree i cannot
reach because it is easier to want
than to try.
you.
i write home about you in soft sentences and warm words,
with flowers, tulips and roses in bouquets,
wrapped in ribbons,
love-notes-tied-with,
in tall hopes that i will tire myself out of this affection.
