Piano Solos

Trace the lines of my face in
pastel and pink
for I can't do it on my own and
trace my tears with drops of Neptune
for the ice in my heart has shown and
although my feet plant on this Earth
my head is high,
high where the wind blown.

Above the trees and above the birds,
my heart does soar
not even you could take me out this door,
this door of color, of light and sound,
I don't have money but not am I poor.

For I have you,
this is simple and true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
you bring it out in me,
you do.
you do.

(It's a last resort to prevent my heart from exploding something needs to get out and reach the air and my fingers can't type fast enough to make up for the vast emptiness in my head except for the three little words that start with a 143.)