Pygmalion

telling me i have to wait
for my true love is like
telling me i’m not able to breathe
until the next blue moon.
because i miss your face even though i’ve never seen it
and my body screams for this mysterious touch that it’s never felt
i’m drunk on ink and imagination thinking
maybe if my descriptions are vivid enough you’ll spring to life from the page making me a modern-day Pymalion.
i’ll have my true love which means it’s a blue moon-
i’ll be able to breathe once more which means
i’ll be able to live again.