I miss your hair pressed and fallen, flowing atop the myriad pores of my fallen existence. Your breasts, like weeping angels; the angles of your fluid curvature like a violet waterfall- when you dream I dream, and when you do not hope, the city within my chest falls and my legs become the ash of a weeping cosmic blanket we have forgotten. Slowly, like a languid snowfall, do you layer the slumbering landscape of my mind. It is you, whom endlessly escapes the silence.