I play pretend,
make-believe a lover.
Usually that lover is you.
Sleepy Sunday mornings
and breakfast in bed,
the way my hand fits so well in yours.
The last words of the day
whispered over our pillows,
our secret gazes
met with smiles
across a crowded room.
I fill my daydreams
with only a version of you–
a version that’s not you at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment