Wednesday, 19 September 2012

That silly little poem that all poets write once

I love to see you sleep
the soft dream before you wake
and you open your windows
in the same everyday calm
and tell me that it was because I was looking
there, inside your eyes
that they couldn't remain so
tightly closed

and here I stand just staring
you and all your butterflies in my lungs
and my blushing face
because they tickle
while I wait for your hands of broken
who still pointing the same hedding
inside of some Whitman's book
or to a milkshake
in a poem
in a movie

and I should've wrote this poem
using future
but I don't mind thinking that
it could be

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