4 . 11 . 18
i wish i could take the letters in the typewriter hiding behind my eyes and let them dance into your skin from the touch of my hand.
you know how much i love poetry
touching you feels a lot like poetry
we can talk for hours
the sweet sounds of good words satisfy our hungry souls
whether they are spoken or sung
or scribbled on sheet music
we like them all.
and we like to wonder.
floating on water rafts of curious thoughts, letting our questions intertwine in our fingers
holding a basket of a stories in our hands.
i must thank you for the times you grabbed my gaze and told me that intelligence is not measured in capital letters.
but letters are all i’ve ever really known
i‘m a poet right?
but, you remind me, poetry is not written in letters.
poetry in the air between us in the car
with a quivering hand and words wilting behind the whites of our eyes