I fucking love you.
You're a vision, sitting with legs-limp and a lop-sided smile.
Even in the gray light I can see the muscles in your arms and
your dimples, dear.
Veins snake through your hands but
you've got no serpents tongue.
And boy, can I get hiiiiiiiiigh off of your cheekbones?
Countertops to soulful eyes.
I know you'd buy me a windchime or a Steinway
if I asked you...
but I won't because I know you're broke.
And by "you", I mean "we".
I see your silhouette in the doorframe and your
warm barefoot smile of the unashamed PURE and WISE innocence.
You move me. Astound me.
I can see something ageless and omnipotent growing in your chest
between those lungs that sigh out sweet sweet notes
low like a valley.
You cry when you pray and you laugh joyously when you play and
your hands are stained by
pens and paint and
calluses and honest actions.
I love you,
My Treehouse Man in the Moon.
Now I only need to know your name.
Created: Jul 31, 2010Document Media