The somnious.

My dreams are the only place I can go to hear your voice tell me how you feel. The streets of Paris are empty and the rain has been dried with the acrylics of the canvas painting we never started.

The colors of my dreams are stuck inside the bottle of paint and sorrow, waiting to be squeezed out by your hands, the one not holding the paint brush of my every breath.

Just take the watercolors of my wanderlust and rewet the pavement of my Paris and the canvas of my heart, because they're dry and chapped, like the lips you never kissed, and the dried hands you never held, the hands that just wrote and wrote and wrote.

Wrote of my sadness and the desaturated tears that fell from the black pits of my nectar filled heart. And I wander these streets bare feet and blind eyed, just feeling and hearing and smelling the air of my dreams as it breezes past me through the streets and down the alleys where the deepest thoughts of my mind reside.

Just please give me a sign or maybe some hope that maybe some day ill get to call you mine.