Filing Bankruptcy

Your eyes, like diamonds I could never afford Your lips, the rarest of wine For my beer pocket's pennies Your slumber, rich and far off distant As I am left to work the graveyard shift Your hands, have held foreign sands While mine have dug deep in stagnant soil Your words, placed on silver platters Served up with warm relish Your face, chiseled like a museum sculpture Mine beneath a mud clay mask Your breath, worthy and worldly devine As I struggle with asthmatic intentions Like the Little Match Girl trudging along Looking into storefront windows of warmth What seems like a treasure, not easily obtained Better be mine, if filing bankruptcy.... Broke