Poetry

Your icy fingers
try to creep in to the room
through the French windows
and I hear your voice cry
past the corner of the house
 
and outside you’re many eyes
glimmer bright in the sky
and even though you want to kiss me
with the golden beams that flow
from your fat mouthed moon,
 
I will wait until you pass bye
and the yellow white sun
returns to the sky
and until then
lie comfortable in bed instead.