SPRINGTIME WITH MY WILL ALONE

Dear You,

It is Monday the 8th. Year 23.

Infrequencies rising and my to-do list is overflowing. At the brim and I miss you. It is beginning to feel like Spring now and the showers are drying up. I loved them lots. Darkness descends upon my dreary head. From the cradle to the grave. From the floor to your bed. Try to see the future but it’s blurry. Take my poem and call me in the morning.

Some words I like right now: heartbeat, caustic, hedonistic, heaven, temperature falling, stained glass, shrap...