On such lonesome nights as these,

When the joyous pendant of tourmaline yellow

No longer drips from the sky’s neck,

My mind does seek abstraction,

A momentary distraction,

As my heart wanders through a

Crowd of fireflies,

Those nightly buttercups

Which do turn their eager heads

In search of kisses

So cruelly postponed,

Yet so carefully recreated in my

Febrile brain,

As my thoughts,

Dancing behind closed eyelids,

Like the coiled tendrils of a

Citrullus plant,

Turn to your mouth,

And though miles may separate me from you,

And you from me,

My face does still glow gold as the

Sun on your