Friday, December 7, 2007

Lovers' Walk

I've turned my back on the world
and now I'll try to keep you safe
from the tryant rain of Independence day;
We'll watch the sky explode above the hospital,
and I'll think of all the things that I can say
to you to make this moment perfect, make it
worth it, make it better than it is. But instead, I'll whisper
something dumb, like "I'm just happy here,"
or maybe "I could wrap my arms around you,
stay forever, and I think it'd be alright.

I'll quickly realize that I sound so lame,
so I'll just laugh and look at you as the sounds
sneak past my lips and through the rain. I'll try
to play it off, but then you'll smirk and shake
your head; I hope your windswept hair slides softer
than your planted septum kisses and your girlish
scent consumes the sulfur silhouettes tonight.
And then you'll turn your head to watch
the burning sky above us fall again
(I love the way it sparkles and it fades),
I'll shudder when I feel your olive neck
lean against my chest, and for maybe just a moment
I'll forget about the irony, drip-dripping from my shoulders.

If the sky will split again, then
I'll quick-nibble at your ear--
there's a word for that, I think;
I'm sure I've used it once before,
but you'd still let me repeat it, like
the Angels, Brits, and Willow trees
of which you never bore, or the sweetened
factories with temple guards and green
monkeys you seem to know so well.
At least we'll have your ceiling stars
to wish upon if nothing else goes right.

I know that you get scared of heights,
but baby, this is just how lovers walk.

July '07

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