Who cares about the ***** laundry, the coffee stained sheets, the flowers wilting on the table, when so many homes are scrubbed clean and sanitized of everything including life.
Let me undress you in this mess, and in the time it takes to do the dishes, we will have gone to Paris and back, making love smoking cigarettes and laughing at the world, and how nothing matters but us.
Only so much can be said about the day: the taxi cab driver with a big mustache, a ****** taco, clouds like smoke on a pink horizon, and you complaining about a ****** day at work, and me looking at you still, as if you're the most beautiful thing on earth.
Tonight, I'm lost in dreams, holding seances with dead poets, and wondering why my love won't speak to me;
I've given her flowers, and poetry, kissed her gently by the moonlit sea, but one bad day in traffic and she's as distant as a star shining in the next room, and here I am pining away for her like a poet.
We met in a blue cafe, a women in red, with eyes that turned me into a Spanish ghost, and her radiant display of laughter, the wind she wore the coffee she drowned the kiss she gave me on a platter of gold.
Two lives, woven together with fire and sweat, honey sand, sea breezes and the cool wind of winter.
I still love to watch her sleep, and count the minutes of love.