Writing you.

You watch his every move from afar
As his body, flowing like the Blackwater
Flows through the glorious Sunshine State.
His body, a method: Brecht or Stanislavski
Written so aptly, forming perfection -
Assonance - as he rhymes his way
From one side to another.
He, of whom you will dream that night,
May dream a silent dream,
Direction: a closed casket
As words writing you,
Flowing gently beneath the nib: swirling
A simile, or perhaps leaning towards
A rhyming couplet, at best
Just panning the world: desire, halting.
Still yearning, for he has only written himself
A soliloquy forming,
Lonely underneath the arch,
Proscenium.
While still, in fact, you are no more than
A simple pencil mark, a notion upon his script
Erased so easily;
A briny away as he shows his last
Avec-vous? No-more.