Little Things

little things are little hours
they drip and we hear the sound
of waiting. Long hours. Unslept.
little petals beneath my feet
buried memories. Rising.
Apparations of glows.
Tie a ribbon in my ring finger.
I remember. I slew forgetting.
dripping remembrances.
Steady streams of strums
Guitar music from the bedroom.
I am ablazed with desire.
I hear your steps getting inside
my skin. You touch me. Some vines
begin to creep. A flower grows
out of my head. You are the
sun. A morning is done.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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