They busy themselves…
In a room full of aloneness
Lingering in the sweet scent of memory,
Languidly losing themselves
In spite of their own rude realities
That only those around them
Seem to understand,
There is no logic,
No sense to senseless wants,
He yearns for her open book
Inscribed only for his tender heart
Soaked in violet dreams
And twenty dollar words
That she will never forget.
They had a year.