He is hardly home
This place echoing empty
Footprints exiting.

The sun sometimes wise
Hitting clear crystal water
The Brooklyn bridge moans.

Can I comb your hair
Can I make you eggs for lunch
You should brush your teeth

Red calligraphy
Streaking down New York gray strees
Sad eyes speaking soft.

A NOTE

I'm not dating them anymore... but i'll do my best to write daily again