Your hair –
twilight strands of, “now'd,”
gotten longer and were so silently dreamt of last Tuesday.
Your fingers –
finally allowed, followed to weave my own,
and all that'd been prior washed away;
Dirt, gizzards and blasphemy, along with the boils from my father’s dead hands.
Your hips –
whispered 'morrow and all the jubilance expelled,
so that the same morrow's sun'd show eminence once again.
Your eyes –
said, “baby,” if only, “baby,” and, “baby, it'll be ok,”
it'll always be, “A-OK.”
So when your heart –
let me and finally to cry, appendage etched eyes,
eyes etched the night and sure, summer'd be at end,
but autumn could taste oh so much better.
Sometimes its not how you stand, but more importantly, who stands next to you.