I want to know I made you smile.
If I could cause such beauty,
life would mean more for a moment.
Why don't smiles last?
Why does the heartbeat slow, eventually?
And can't two people simply enjoy one another's company--
be be here for once, for now, together, right here and just be warm?
Without expectation, just happy.
No hopes, no unstated desires, just togetherness,
and those conversations one has lying on roofs, looking into the stars, on the hood of your car,
looking out on the moonlight stretched in shadows over a lake's rippling surface,
you know in the movies,
but when you actually do it it's better than any movie no matter who you're with or what temperature it is outside, or how many mosquitos are swarming, or what the radio is playing.
And notes written in pencil.
Pens run out of ink.
But why did we...
Why have we...
Why are we not writing anymore?
Can we drag the dry pen down the pages, forever, until paper rips under the pressure?
The story is etched into me.
Let's never stop telling the story.
Anyway, like I said, I want to know I made you smile
so we need to speak of many things.
So that if you want to know you made me smile,
we can know exactly where those smiles came from,
what it meant...
what it means for them
to have meant that
to
us.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
I want to know I made you smile.
If I could cause such beauty,
life would mean more for a moment.
Why don't smiles last?
Why does the heartbeat slow, eventually?
And can't two people simply enjoy one another's company--
be be here for once, for now, together, right here and just be warm?
Without expectation, just happy.
No hopes, no unstated desires, just togetherness,
and those conversations one has lying on roofs, looking into the stars, on the hood of your car,
looking out on the moonlight stretched in shadows over a lake's rippling surface,
you know in the movies,
but when you actually do it it's better than any movie no matter who you're with or what temperature it is outside, or how many mosquitos are swarming, or what the radio is playing.
And notes written in pencil.
Pens run out of ink.
But why did we...
Why have we...
Why are we not writing anymore?
Can we drag the dry pen down the pages, forever, until paper rips under the pressure?
The story is etched into me.
Let's never stop telling the story.
Anyway, like I said, I want to know I made you smile
so we need to speak of many things.
So that if you want to know you made me smile,
we can know exactly where those smiles came from,
what it meant...
what it means for them
to have meant that
to
us.