If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.
If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.
If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.
If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.
If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.
If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.
If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.
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