Seeing as how for whatever reason the massive imbibe-ment of marijuana and alcohol has a somewhat deleterious effect on one's memory, I am forced to once again share some of my poetry with this interweb so that I might appear to be a productive writer. This piece is my own personal homage to a Poe-esque love poem. The only difference being that here my subject is still very much alive and, unfortunately for Edgar Allan Poe - his subjects were typically either dead, taken by another man, a child, or all three at the same time.
In any case, allow me to present to you: To Miss WSL.
The fiery heat of Georgia's summers pale in comparison to the inferno that rages within your heart.
Your eyes blaze as a focused beam of sunlight, alighting the kindling of my very soul and setting my passions ablaze.
Before you, I had never known what it meant to be truly alive - free and aware of the passions within my spirit which are now guided - given focus and direction by the signal-fire of your heart.
But for now, my bed is empty.
For now, my bed is cold.
For now you are not near me,
For now my heart is cool.
Though I see you every day, I cannot touch you.
Though we speak every day, I cannot feel you.
Though we share our love daily, I cannot embrace you.
Though we spend our days with each other, we are not together.
Until we next meet, I am but brush, awaiting the spark of your spirit to awaken my heart's conflagration once more.
Until that time: I love you.
Until time itself ends: I am yours.
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