"If I could give you the belief and years ..." Garth Brooks sings, and that to me sometimes as little. Because, to choose, would opt to summarize each hour of a morning in the warmth of three in the morning, when your heat becomes volatile and elusive dream. Because, if permitted, would build a morning of laughter and coffee cups with a little cinnamon on your fingers and look for life. Could you repeat the fifty letters to the alphabet invented new ones to meet minimally the touch of a "I love you" and take it to the top of your mouth. Give you the assurance of peace of the sheets, the edge of the couch, curtains dancing to the wind that ruffles at the time you nap. And trim the face like the petals of many strokes, and convince your back is the metaphor itself (where I can invent a thousand arpeggios). If I could invent clocks that make you go, shirts without buttons, and a honeyed moon to write meaningful words I can not pronounce. Bite again and revive the words to convince you that the belief is that we are and that we have, and I do not need anything more than your dark eyes watching me sleep and disheveled.
0 comments:
Post a Comment