Heart rate’s beating off the charts.
Everything I see is blurred.
Except you and me.
I cry for your name.
Yet you do not look back.
What happened to us, pray I ask?
I miss those brown eyes.
I miss the way you smile.
I miss everything about you.
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink Poetry
Poetry"The poem is a little myth of man's capacity to make life meaningful." - Robert Penn Warren
