It Could Have Been a Mistake, but It Wasn’t
27 February 2011 § 1 Comment
I spilled moonlight on her bed because I
didn’t bring her flowers. I kept kicking
though the minutes and maneuvering the
hours until I had time to take her
hand with mine. All moved away and I slipped
all I felt for her in tones reserved for
movies, drenched in blues and vehement hues
Each scene spoke tapers with ardent contrast.
I spilled moonlight on her bed because she
didn’t ask for anything. She told me
more with her head on my shoulder and she
hinted at holding hands. She crafted time,
willing steps she’s never taken before.
I’ve never felt such softness all my life;
I have roved and ranged and been here again
and never felt better than when kissing
all the corners away from your edges.
I drenched her in sighs and whimpers and lights
accentuating the night that streamed
through the window pane slits. We both paid dues
to ethereal moods and whispered blues.
She read once that two are better than one.
It had something to do with chords or forms
or spiritual braids reserved for the end
of each long day. We were woven into
an honest, blending sort of parallel.
At the end of the day, she’ll always be
so lost. But we’re in parallel; look right,
and you’ll see me. She can follow me home;
There, the moonlight always blends parallel.