And the writer in me left,
And followed you.
Because wherever you are, there is my creativity...
And there, my poetic ability.
You left,
And stole my poetry,
And my mind and heart.
You left,
And until now...
My blank notebooks
And hollow apartment
Long for your return.
The record player longs
To play our dancing tunes...
The bedsheets long to be
Wrinkled by our love.