It’s getting late
And the sky is turning this
Of celestine blue.
Not as blue as me
When I’m tinged by sorrow
With a tart taste lingering
On the tip of my tongue, where my words for you
Have lived for ages now.
I wish that I would be enveloped by Darkness
So she could put her stamps on me
And mail me to your doorstep
Where you would open the letter
And have me read to you the words I’ve been dying to say.