I stumble in my dreams br on you br every br yesterday, br as some form of sinning. br It never ends. You seem to be br unfinished br love, br some form of art, the only br form of art that's br appealing to my soul. br br It's not just your presence. br Sometimes I find br only footprints br going in and out br of my pages, br underneath the door br outside. br (Am I going insane?) br br And then there are br the good dreams br where pirates br are sailing br in bottles of wine br between your breasts, br singing silly songs br of love br and carrying br love letters br in barrels br from my lips br to yours. br But they never reach br that far. br They drown br in the drips of sweat br rolling down your neck. br They aren't br as smart br as they were. br They fell in love br as I have too. br br I never know what to say, br what words fit better br what would make you kiss me. br I've tried to pull them out, br but my mouth is a dry br deserted place. br For a while br I turned to others br to the real poets br the famed br the acknowledged br the dead, br but sadly br they don't care, br they have... br they had br their own dreams. br br I think that maybe br dreaming br and writing poems br is not the best way br to make love.