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
fingers
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
today.
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