A small cell illuminated by a window.

Night framed in a cold wooden frame.

The stars are aligned, the moon is emptying.

A night painted for romance, but I am alone.

A small wooden radio plays on the shelf.

Old love songs echo in its empty chassis.

I never knew the tunes syncopated with my heart.

Heartbreak, loneliness resonated in my empty chassis.

A pen rests upon an empty page; a relationship inactive.

Imagination binds the two; the hand to draw the two.

Smiles are written, hands are held; experiences yet to exist.

Stories are fine. For me, stories are fine.

A single mattress with white sheets and pillow.

The only white in the room, the moon the only white in the sky.

Sleep is all I can do, dream is all I can do.

Love is only something to think about.

Love is only something to dream about.