careless entreaties

I don’t care if
we only ever wander
through the skylit pages
of your imaginings.
Our world should be
the one inside your head,
where we hold hands like ghosts,
with fantastic, stony arches,
high, below our dangling feet.
Let’s invent our lives,
like butterscotch and green tea,
like radiator grease and guitar strings,
like we are our own playthings.
Create me,
give me a name,
put a song in my throat
that wasn’t mine until
you placed it there.
We will intertwine
and bend together,
soaking up the distance
between us and your sunset verde,
mired with hummus clouds,
and rich despair.

36 Comments

  1. Despair, despair…
    Yet if you bare
    all you can bear
    then you and he
    shall know no care.
    You shall well fare,
    you shall well fare,
    lass who art fair.
    Let down your hair.

    😉

  2. “like butterscotch and green tea,

    like radiator grease and guitar strings,

    like we are our own playthings.”

    LOVE the juxtaposition of imagery here. and we ARE our own playthings!

Love you, too

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