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starting to dream again.
December 4, 2015
He writes songs down my
back with his fingertips
and every color
presses its face to the sky's glass.
every future spills lifelines
across my shoulders,
Valhalla casting for a bite
of golden apples polished past
my aching fingertips.
this is creation,
blood pacts under oak trees.
his voice is a lazy balloon drift
secretly double-knotting
our wrists beneath the garden,
sweet plants hushing
our lips when they grow too
eager.
I call it a promise
and we both relax.
© Jasmine R., Bourbon, MI
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