I could write a novel, In the beginning, A slow dawn in winter, And there I am. Leaf towards the middle, And Stretching out past The end ever after our climax, It Is always you. When we close our book, We come together. Bound in one spine. Yours, Wrapped in new dollar bills, And plastic. Mine... Worn yet wrapped in newspapers. Lets then highlight the simple things. Washing dishes, watching movies, and making messes. Let us not cross out the annotations Or explanations for our motivations. I want us, Raw Unedited With mistakes Full of passion Unabridged .
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 07:27:02 +0000