Shadow-cast Glass

Call to me and I will whisper, "come,"
for I miss you as the fall brings morning dew,
and the sweat on my brow becomes the rain on my eyelid,
and I am speaking to you in the apostrophe of local clouds,
the honey melon of mental rainbows, refracted off the hard glass.

Which keeps me from waving to you in my dreams,
as you seem to pass by, yet waiting all the time,
like a painting beyond my focus, the concert that sings to me,
echoing what has been proclaimed: "you who were born a criminal,
shall not die as one," the remembrance written in my name.