like sheep, we ride from town to town
between holes in april's fragrance, only kept alive
by ideals of a storytime by the hillside.
i remember those nights like sand amidst her fingers
as broken sailors drink to forgive. Love is a cheap trophy -
it cannot be achieved; for it chooses us, in the same way that
a babysitter chooses when to open the blinds in a child's bedroom.
bathroom renovations and foam mattresses attract the blame
alongside three hour monopoly games in 1997. a battery-powered
halloween encloses a kiss on the cheek -
early nights;
early mornings;
visuals dance and sway amongst the clothes on the floor.
i long for her, as she becomes water for the thirsty; a helping hand
for the elderly, a way of life for the needy.
i long for those nights like sand amidst my fingers, engraved.
i frown upon the ability to hold back, because it beats me every time.
even with all their prowess, big cats like to cuddle too.