When I write

 
I feel childly at times,

the picture of sunlight
through my window
pink
red
indigo
and orange
creative timbers falling,
 
when we were children
in the rustic water colors
underneath the bridge
in a splitting neon image
I wrote that I love you,

pleasures of torments,
bejeweled
bewilderment,
each rustle of a leaf
a thunderous applause,

knowing at night it darkens,
filling time again,

come fly with me, I see a star,
kiss me in the morning.