When I think of you I think of Bergamot And flowers And the artists that So carefully grow them To be pressed into Pages Protected beneath Gentle words And the clouds That linger Soft on cold Sunday mornings
And you said It’s been a dream While I’ve been awake Counting stars on your ceiling Memorizing each snore into My neck Full from food and Peaceful cinema You say it’s been a dream And I’ve always been bad At telling The two apart
I deserve good things Like kettle corn And the promise that Seeds I spit will grow Laying shoulder blade To shoulder blade sometimes Summers on top of Your comforter And comfort In knowing The heavy softness Of knowing You
A memory Chiseled away Somewhere deep In tertiary terrain The need to be small Trained to touch Make no noise Don’t need too much I still shut doors And turn the *** To be as quiet As a mouse In my minds glass House