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sgholterPoems
*Are you just going to stand there and Watch me peel this garlic*, she asks. I shrug with a slight smile.   Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving The way a dancer does when she doesn't Dance. What is art? This. The juggling of seconds that contain Something more than all of those Without her. We could be on a midsummer Balcony in Venice, or In a barley field in Provence, mid- Kiss and laughing so soothingly the Sun doesn't even feel like it takes. Red skinned by sun-down, sipping Local wine and asking ourselves How the Hell life became so Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, not Dancing across the worn down linoleum With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in Her hands, and I just found the key to The treasure chest that contains All the reasons I have to keep Breathing instead of not To.
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Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
Barley Field in Provance, Mid-Kiss
*Are you just going to stand there and Watch me peel this garlic*, she asks. I shrug with a slight smile.   Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving The way a dancer does when she doesn't Dance. What is art? This. The juggling of seconds that contain Something more than all of those Without her. We could be on a midsummer Balcony in Venice, or In a barley field in Provence, mid- Kiss and laughing so soothingly the Sun doesn't even feel like it takes. Red skinned by sun-down, sipping Local wine and asking ourselves How the Hell life became so Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, not Dancing across the worn down linoleum With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in Her hands, and I just found the key to The treasure chest that contains All the reasons I have to keep Breathing instead of not To.
sgholter
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sgholter
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
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