You, beyond my world, THE ta-da,
popping in pomp and flame and color,
(a kind of love, so they say),
have lived and will live some more
in my head, so I can do what you've taught me
while you were there and very not,
while your existence was cold as it was hot.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
