‘round the end of summer,
can’t help but get that:
“did you fall for me or did the seasons change”
sort of flip to my step.
but that’s gettin’ a tad ahead of myself.
I asked her what kind of poem she wanted,
‘n she said one about pillows,
‘n I asked if she was sure,
‘n she was, so here we are.
She’s popped the hood in her floral sundress,
air’s got that too sweet stick of coolant,
‘n you can tell she’s just got this worry that all this ’ll go to shit,
that she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t have come.
she’s made the first move,
‘n it ain’t hard to see she’s thinkin’ I’m too reserved,
she’s telling me she’s done this before “you know”,
when my kisses won’t venture too south,
but I can, can’t,
’cause she just means so fucking much to me, “you know”?
I wanted to show her how I could love her on those pillows,
the gentle, the passion, the respect.
fuck
t
h
a
t
fell asleep with her rested on my chest,
she was warm and the pillows were soft … … …
I dreamt in orange-filtered sunlight,
perpetual summer,
flowers that stick too too sweet.
I dreamt of a thousand nights like this.
young squashed faces distending with emotions they don’t understand,
gently resting her back to pillow,
as I creep down pastel hall,
and bounce our love in shushing cadence.
been too too much,
and she doesn’t know what to do,
me either,
but I hold her and tell her I’m there until we both drift.
she’s beaming,
some joke or stroke of luck,
but she’s glowing
and warmer than home.
she’s home covered in paints,
but laughing as I pull her into bed anyway,
the stiff flakes rubbing off her cheeks
as I try to remind her she is worth everything.
she was warm,
the pillows were soft,
and no other promise mattered as much as her slowed breath trust.
