Loss

 To say I miss love.
Would be the joke of life.
More of mine than his.
To be you would be freedom
And to be me, nothing.

I wander around as the fool
in those eyes of yours.
Yet I gather the words of this,
the poem. You will decline
with the leaves cascading down.

Or it will be ice instead.
Melting and freezing, according
to the time of the sun's warmth.
Till I'm broken from the eaves
with your finger out of spite.

That's the future and I still
wander the roads as the fool.
With a little blue notebook
Writing a world, I'm losing.