I can't sleep

Once,

I wrote you a lonely love song,

but you weren't mine,

so I sang it to the stars.

And now, writing of you goes unfinished.

My mind is crowded

with future thoughts of

us walking along the Seine or

us standing in the streets of Florence,

of a trip to D.C., where our first,

the perfect mixture of

me and

you,

will be animated.

And perhaps then,

I will finally wrap us in scarves and slide across ice.