Alone,
in the middle of a quiet evening,
the warmth of August slides his hands across my skin.
My shadow sits in front of me
stretched out across the concrete;
mimicking my every move.

The wind is only paper.
I wish my pen had ink, but it doesn't and I'm sorry.
The sky is sleeping:
a flawless blue.
It sends me plummeting through miles of dreams;
ones that I am sure to forget as night thickens and time turns me old.

The sun is lowering in the sky
and it makes diamonds through the trees.
I wish I could keep them
and display them on your bedroom floor.

The quiet is much like death
and yet I feel so alive.
So incredibly alive that perhaps I am not real.
It seems to crawl into my mind on all fours
and lay amongst my thoughts
melting into every open space;
an intruder to my dreams.

Everything is paper
but my pen is dry.