Sycamore

To my bird that sings on the fruit tree's branch:

You may not be real
But my sleep is better with than without you
And thus I confide you a dense side of me
Soaking and churning the brown noise til it melts
Into a dew and whitens into gold,
A gold that says that I am the love inside it.

Lily choirs, I find myself in debt forever
To your abundant honey,
Full from the source and
Tender to my temple.

Because an "I love you" isnt enough.

Sincerely,
Seven trillion sorry's and thank you's that I pour
unto you when my hour has come.