Her posters, her 8x10s, the dreams I make of her beauty.
Icons of something made perfect by a tempestuous heart.
In my cramped room, laying in my bed, as winter comes.
I might sew angels wings yet, from the thread of my desire.
Overwrought power ballads on video tributes on YouTube.
The omnivorous dreams of her light hearted screen presence.
I am here in the cold grey of November, she is up in Barbados.
I can still find a light of innocent love, looking at her on screen.
People in my life seem close and distant, love me, but I am here
in my room most of the time, and they aren’t comrades, ride or die.
The sugary rush of dreams of a beautiful one, blessed and posh, whole.
I let this dream and passion, distant and perfect, fill me in this cold November.