Mon Amour

When a man whispers
"His feet hurt, and his shoes
are too small and
he's forgotten how to dance."
He prays noone else
understands his dilema,
nor what this means but I do.
No moon rises betwéen his
lowly stinky creepy
femfatales shoe-less other.
My moon spins way up higher
in orbit serving mystic functions
and our moon glares
in each others eyes
as our breathing sighs in love.
True love is our vine that
reigns in us as gravity rules on Earth.
With trips to nowhere and back
In love and without presence
I remain lost and found
a restless Angel.
~~~~~~~~
Mr. and Mrs. Andrews