the moon
crawled across the sky,
a prelude to the suns rise;
as it followed close behind,
longing to wake and catch your eye
...we'll get her next time
the way
a rose grows it's pedals
just to have them
fall,
i'm writing to say
i love you,
because you wont pick
up my
calls.
what did I do so wrong?
my angel,
etched in snow
surviving,
keeping cold.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
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