Making your bed while the moon is awake, slowly but quickly depriving arguments with you.
I have prolonged self pity, constantly rendering speechless moments with you.
The keypad begs to be touched.

Galloping through Nebraska summer cornfields.
Drinking natural crisp unsweetened tea.
Childhood reeks of off-brand gold antibacterial hand soap.
Mead Canary Legal Pads kept my father stagnant.

They keypad begs
The moon awakens slowly while
You argue and I pity the moments
We washed over cornfields in Nebraska
With sweat glazing our foreheads
And the scent gold Dial soap in the distance.

A canary pad,
A tan leather jacket,
A tray of amber glass,
A bunch of sour grapes