Last Romantic

In daisy fields of happiness, mountains from my sadness, I wander through rivers, aimlessly into dreams, into the sky I made out of poetry, drunk on the feeling of being alive. The pleasure grows in between my legs, every time I think about sex. My mind is submerged in the desire, the pervasive city fog. My watery eyes widen when I see the clouds above, when I ignite in the cloudburst. The heavens rain down on me, so effortlessly. I wash the grey matter from my hands, the alluring scent from my body. I fold as if I'm the lapel, the wicker ready to mold. I am made from atomic particles, regretting what I said, how I acted on impulse. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have soaked in the landscape from the optic, as Billy whispered in my ear. I blocked out the white noise of the television static, I thought of the lush sunlight on my skin, the cool lake water, the view from the mountain summit. The nostalgia is painful.