I am the flower that wilts, when you the sun are behind clouds like quilts.
I am the mushroom that steps in the damp shade, you are the fallen tree where my mycelium lay.
The hands to my pray, the dis to my may, the feeling of the employee who left work, and forgot to collect pay; a double edged sword for replay.
The smiles are gay, an are always on display. Though, I once heard you say, and twice listened to words of grey…can we be alone…or, can we be alone.