Why would my fingers want to hold
a pen to write another line,
when they could run through your hair-gold?
For me, the cold pen does not pine.
And the pen is full of blackness,
which spills out in thin line squiggles.
Tied together but meaningless
compared to your hair and giggles.
The pen lends me no soft solace,
as your hair does when you're on top.
I pull you down to kiss your face
wanting this night to never stop.
Later a question crossed my mind,
how, on this earth,
could love be blind?