Poetry speaks of the void,
but cannot fill it.
Years gone by, leaving dormant 
the pubescent visions of you.
Then, veiled in inaccessibility,
appears a dream from my youth.
Back, as from the grave,
and almost in my hands.
Have your fantasies.
And have your convenient engagement.
And have a pick-nick.
And have me on your mind.
You stayed with me for a year
floating before my sleep starved mind.
Then, over time, you left me dry.
Floyd pulled you back into me,
but it was too vague a memory.
Black hair dye and John....
Your grandmother,
and the Lutheran Church,
and your brother, but not you,
passed me in the isles.
So now, after an eternity of waiting,
you've floated back into my life.
Fenchurch with the feet that 
don't quite touch the ground.
So have your fantasies.
And have your convenient engagement.
And have a pick-nick.
And have me on your mind,
for to me,  my imagination 
is the only place 
you've ever really lived.