Your dark hair
is a waterfall
where I seek the
end the
crashing mist
the spray,
your body is a river
and I'm the wind
you always turned
the radio down
said
"listen to the words,"
looked at the
guard-rail passing
by your eyes
skipping
skipping
skipping
skipping beats to
listen to the words.
You don't like music,
you like poetry, my rose.