I often think of you;
Well more often than not as if my mind stumbled upon slippery stones of sustenance
More often than not.
When a simple gasp of air
Halts.
I often think of you;
By the brook where each leaf falls within ink
Stilling the chill, dry voice.
I often think of you;
Well more often than not because well I miss you
Like a warm Autumn day.
Where all is still and I can quietly whisper
My loves for you.
-R.£ Cannon