I saw you standing, dressed to ****.
Perhaps waiting for someone to tell you of her thrill--
the thrill that you give, when you start to sing.
I should’ve told you then that I’d been listening.
I’d just started to listen, just begun to catch the fire;
it wasn’t until later that I burned with desire.
Then I fell for you, I fell for you deep.
You’ve been playing with my mind; you’ve been visiting my sleep.
I wish I’d told you then, that I’d give you anything;
though nothing I could give you, would equal what you bring--
what you bring to me nightly, what you touch in my core.
When you’re next in town, go out the back door.
I’ll show you the stars, I’ll show you the lights;
I’ll give you what you crave at the end of the nights.
I’ll tell you of my dream, I’ll tell you of my vision,
then I’ll worship at the altar of my one true religion.
For Jay Buchanan
I'm pulling out the rest of the PF poems
