As my pen pours it’s ink
Onto lonely paper
From my pores into the darkened sky
Hoping my words beckons busy wind
And the moon turns her head.
For I need to sing this love
Into her left pocket
So that they will be written down; Placed onto your cool pillow
As you lay your head for slumber.
They twitch from their need
To embrace your delicateness.
I’m unsure of how to conclude
This spillage of myself,
So know you will be in my dreams
Jonathan M. Emerson