It was ghost stories about what might happen and what might not,
And it was willing glass figurines out of patience and passion,
and it was walking into rooms clear as crystal with your words on your sleeve and
your heart on the tip of your tongue but soon using forgetfulness to cover reddening
cheeks,
And it was double dutch, softly whispering “next time” after each cycle of the cords. We exchanged fire and water, teaching you to ebb and flow to limestone riverbeds
and the creases of my hand on your back, stomach, thighs.
Teaching me embers awake like dew, are confident as lighting, which appears
before its voice announces its power.On the temple of your ivory bone and porcelain skin,
I offered muscle and combustion,
Meager morsels, for the moment,
But with wind flowing through blood and foundation cornerstones.
And it was willing glass figurines out of patience and passion,
and it was walking into rooms clear as crystal with your words on your sleeve and
your heart on the tip of your tongue but soon using forgetfulness to cover reddening
cheeks,
And it was double dutch, softly whispering “next time” after each cycle of the cords. We exchanged fire and water, teaching you to ebb and flow to limestone riverbeds
and the creases of my hand on your back, stomach, thighs.
Teaching me embers awake like dew, are confident as lighting, which appears
before its voice announces its power.On the temple of your ivory bone and porcelain skin,
I offered muscle and combustion,
Meager morsels, for the moment,
But with wind flowing through blood and foundation cornerstones.
And it was love and it was love and it was love,
And though, in number like second chances,
We assured ourselves we could go without,
And it was love and it was love and it was love