Laney

. . . Come pick thy left pieces For my brain still counts memories Go behind my eyes For thy shadow shines like flash light Fetch my hanging appetite The ulcers are feeding on your aroma A glassful of your lip twists For my thirst dines on flu Take the slopping path My heart waited longer than patience Can i envy your smile Its seen by many not me alone I wish to color your dreams With a range of roasted apples If you tasted like wine You could be the chained bottle to my wrist . . . .