What is it you misunderstand?
Your beauty, or my softness
that seeps through the gratitude we call
us
And fills the ever leaking stream of consciousness
I deem,
incorrectly,
you.
Take my hand
Fair Dreamer of warmth and honey,
Let me hold your sticky pollinated eyes
in the palm of my days
And caress the electricty
of your thoughts in motion.
Sit with me a while
in the quiet being of
almost sleep,
And eat these sweet raspberries
I plucked from the tree outside your window,
As we osculate into the
liminal tenderness of
your sheets.