I see thee Laid, to be scrawled in entering words To my few empty pages. I am but the scar that represents the lines, As you are the ocean that leaves me blank. I call moments Apart, To be left on the start, The beginning of the page Of every crease. Your mind is my troublesome kind, Lonely in your verse. Your words Come close, to be conversed In the scents of a luscious form that leaks dew, Streaming from your eyes, in the new Wandering moments, of something distant. I am broken As the rhyme Atop your glistening body In the deathly heat, Blasted by the sun. Your grace Wanders around your face, While your bosom Drives fire against fire, Bleeding bountiful desire. Something seems to never end About the torn page, Leaving me washed to the next stage Of a very watery existence. For I had sunk the white into a blue, Not comprehending Had I reached above or below.