Number Four.
a poem written for you,
on a number four bus.
as I sit here, pen gripped tightly, while
drunken men serenade me, unintentionally, with a harmonica
and rain slips through an open window to my right
this thought
it hits me...
nothing can be quite as real without you, because
my ears will be deaf without the comfort of your voice,
and my tongue numb without your mouth to taste,
nothing will be nearly as real without you, because
I need you to remind my heart to beat...
and I long, to slide my fingers slowly across your body
to read your curves and slopes like I might read braille.
as if I was blind and could not see. I will recite you as
long as my hands might permit me to hold you, and to
hold your hand closely as my own...
the bus slows to my stop now, and I no longer need
to look, cause I feel you, gripping me by the back
and pulling me close. and maybe if I am lucky,
as the rain pours outside your open window to my right,
you'll give me the kind of story, that I've always...
been longing to read.
on a number four bus.
as I sit here, pen gripped tightly, while
drunken men serenade me, unintentionally, with a harmonica
and rain slips through an open window to my right
this thought
it hits me...
nothing can be quite as real without you, because
my ears will be deaf without the comfort of your voice,
and my tongue numb without your mouth to taste,
nothing will be nearly as real without you, because
I need you to remind my heart to beat...
and I long, to slide my fingers slowly across your body
to read your curves and slopes like I might read braille.
as if I was blind and could not see. I will recite you as
long as my hands might permit me to hold you, and to
hold your hand closely as my own...
the bus slows to my stop now, and I no longer need
to look, cause I feel you, gripping me by the back
and pulling me close. and maybe if I am lucky,
as the rain pours outside your open window to my right,
you'll give me the kind of story, that I've always...
been longing to read.