will you love me?
will you think of me next sunday evening
when the newspapers are gossiping together on your front porch
as i birth life into the rose buds growing six feet above me?
my darling, you are the georgia sun

and i loved you even before i felt
the luminescent fingers of god
sifting through the morning dew
beckoning my every root and stem
to embrace your september glare above the fertile darlington soil.
will you love me? will you love me then?

i wake up to your warm gaze upon the pink hues of my blistered skin.
i am alive and, with my finger, i trace the poison ivy
that has managed to make itself a home in these cobblestone ravines.
the grooves in the path cling to the soles of my shoes as they try and change my mind
but every sunday afternoon your remnants in the ashtray tempt me closer
i stand on the edge and etch saltwater confessions into the dying moss below me—
your memory creeps up behind me and pushes me off the bridge.

it's always sunny in darlington