Inventory Of Missed Beats

Under a perfect moon. I
missed you at dawn in,
rain dance, when stars
were going to hide.

Beyond midnight, you
were not supposed to stay
in my dreams.

Oh, was it the time
to drink from the falling
dew? Can I blend the nature
with your eyes?

The days were trecherous.
You were not going
to curve like a rainbow.
It was a good old art of swaying.

When you run short of
appropriate words to describe
the dilemma, you start
counting the folds in the currain.