Pondering Her

I often imagine her sitting in some rigid mahogany chair
Lost in that licentious mind of hers, with whiskey lips and a fag between her fingertips
Silently reminiscing the taste of some perfidious lover
Or, perhaps, over the regret of an impulsive word
Penning those perfectly imperfect verses with feverish drive
Then, maybe, deciding it's shit just to rewrite that same concept in a different hand

This nameless woman of afar
With ghosts that influence the incentive many admire
I find myself pondering if she's aware of my own existence
My attempt of an ever changing style in hopes of an individual artistry
Longing for that recognition by her, I secretly wish to remain ignored by others

This open book of enigmas
So obviously exposed, she remains mysterious for over analytical eyes
These thoughts of mine fill my reflection with bewilderment
For she is the he of being her
And I've become ashamed of who I am

This is for you my dear
Completely unaware of this fact if your curiosity ever brings you to read this
I could only wonder if it does, as the sky changes its perception of radiance from weeks to years
Sitting behind that screen inhaling your fag as I to, from afar, mirror that motion