Sepia Nostalgia

In frequent places

of strange memories

and sepia nostalgia

I die without you.

I am drunk on the wine

of fermented desires

losing flavor in winter.

The wind, a reminder

of emptiness, a breeze

on high plains of misery.

Dallas is the crutch

and Kansas won't cure

this quick heart attack

that will kill me for sure.

Without the other half

I am hollow, like the dying

Maples that weep in the

empty winds of winter.