I climbed
A poet's
Tree last night
To wrap myself in it's
Leaves and pretended the branches
Were your arms.

I don't mind the splinters it gives
Me because unlike the ones you give me
I can
Pull them out.

And as much as I would have like to
Take a pocket knife and carve lines
Couplets, haiku's, limricks, sonnets...
lines into the brown bark and pretend it
Was your skin, or my skin.

I couldnt.

I can't do much of anything now a days
Maybe I am just a morning glory
lost withing a tangle
of vines.