Months are receding,
I’m still your biggest fan.
Carrying you on my shoulders, defeated
helps to keep me missing and conceding—
every wish is a beaten dying one.
Love is loosely based.
Lorn with yearn, and stubborn it’s true,
eagerly I’d relive each day with you.
Go from me
and keep what I lost.
Take your prize,
pour, till empty,
out this poor man’s food.
photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2102/1875927186_263f46630b_b.jpg
