Chasing Suns

I tap on the glass with my

fingertip;

one

two

three

four;

my fingertips

cold from morning breeze that

cling onto me like

dust.

I whisper to myself a series of

strung together lines from 

favourite songs;

tuneless - because I aim to hear

only the words;

just the words.

I close my eyes and feel 

dawn

grazing against my eyelids with

a hundred rays of

waking gold;

i feel 

warm 

but my fingertips are still 

cold 

from sticking my hand out the window

when I tried to 

taste purity upon my skin.

These are songs he wrote for me;

just for me.