There are letters to write and
There is sleep to find, but
I find myself focussing on
The curve of a girl’s arm.

She inhabits a world that
I find hard to believe is real.
Palm trees and open top cars
Under sapphire skies are alien
To me, buried in the depths
Of an English winter.

Her days are long with
Laughter, while my hands
Dry out and crack like
The riverbeds of her world.

Sometimes I wish I had the time
To draw pictures and to write
Endless meaningless words, but
I know I would waste it,
Just as I squander the time
In which I can do
Important things.

The distractions are gone;
My eyes are almost closed.

02/04/2009

Posted on 02/05/2009
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