Oh, this is the love I meant,
or at least a happy accident,
there's clouds up in the canopy,
on a veranda set in eternity.
And there's seashells on the shore,
upon the land-dweller's front door,
I sing my song and place it to your ear,
but I'm drowned out from the ocean roar.
I've been a shed hollowed out;
left to stew in damp and doubt,
you hold my stomach, your face is kind,
and all of the knots begin to unwind.
We are train-stop lovers
beside the vending machines,
a ukulele sonnet,
for the clued up has-beens.
Now we're set to light
under the wash of stars,
until we feel great belonging
to all of the so-fars.
So without saving face or attempting subtlety,
or basking under conceited poetry,
under Costa Rican skies, in a writer's retreat,
in this astral plain where new lovers meet;
that for all the glory I may come to see,
there's none more beautiful
or rare than thee.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
Oh, this is the love I meant,
or at least a happy accident,
there's clouds up in the canopy,
on a veranda set in eternity.
And there's seashells on the shore,
upon the land-dweller's front door,
I sing my song and place it to your ear,
but I'm drowned out from the ocean roar.
I've been a shed hollowed out;
left to stew in damp and doubt,
you hold my stomach, your face is kind,
and all of the knots begin to unwind.
We are train-stop lovers
beside the vending machines,
a ukulele sonnet,
for the clued up has-beens.
Now we're set to light
under the wash of stars,
until we feel great belonging
to all of the so-fars.
So without saving face or attempting subtlety,
or basking under conceited poetry,
under Costa Rican skies, in a writer's retreat,
in this astral plain where new lovers meet;
that for all the glory I may come to see,
there's none more beautiful
or rare than thee.
Sorry for being incredible sentimental
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