Chasing Suns

I tap on the glass with my
fingertip;
one
two
three
four;
my fingertips
cold from morning breeze that
cling onto me like
dust.

I whisper to myself a series of
strung together lines from
favourite songs;
tuneless - because I aim to hear
only the words;

just the words.

I close my eyes and feel
dawn
grazing against my eyelids with
a hundred rays of
waking gold;
i feel
warm
but my fingertips are still
cold
from sticking my hand out the window
when I tried to
taste purity upon my skin.

These are songs he wrote for me;

just for me.