At night, I hum a little song to myself.
I hum your song, a gentle beat on the drums of my heart.
You're a stranger to me but my soul knows you.
Your past is a scraped up knee and I yearn to console you.
I miss your freckles.
I miss your thighs touching mine.
I miss your eyes seeing me.
I've memorized their color.
You're my kind of bookshelf
Cluttered with knick knacks and books ready to fill my mind
With any kind of brilliance I wish to see.
The shooting stars offer a new possibility to wish for.
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