By the light of my heart, by the
light of my lamp, I write. Scribble words,
sentences to you through a mundane beam of attempt.
Lately, it seems, my words are trapped. Caught a disease
at the idea of you. These walls, they contain,
taint me, warp me, make me victim to the night's
chill air. Your aftermath.

As much as I try, I can't stop writing about love.

How I want to breathe it,
How I want to see it,
How I want to live it,

How I want to have it.