Love know's the desert.

T. S. Eliot's Wasteland doesn't seem so wasted
As long as we move.
This crazy smoke making think,
Leaves me a likeness of love
With your name scratching
Like I couldn't breathe as if I was real.
I nhit enter and think about what I should've said, baby.
I'm a sick man that wishes better.
I love somehow, even though I died sometime ago.
The receivers off the hook and I'm on a mission.
You may find me where the tracks divide or I might just ghost my way home.
Have we met my met, my gypsy love?
My memorandom is so random.
Make the eye's remember, heart.
I can't see so good anymore.
I'm a dyer in moments like tree's
With falling in my nature.