Inspired from reading @50footqueenie's short but poignant declaration.
DAY EIGHTY-TWO (2015-6-29)
DAMMIT NOW I'M GOING TO HAVE TO MAKE YOU LOVE ME
In damp soil arms are seeds, held.
Their halves split, push against dirt walls, try to grow.
You can hear their husks whispering in the midnight.
Here, on blankets, there's the linger of a touch.
The ceiling tents skywards, as if fertilized by hopes.
Blankets are soft and lovely and lonely.
Their edges rasp against skin, whispering in the midnight.
In damp sheet embraces, we are seeds.
Perhaps, given water, we'll grow.
Widemouthed lips pour glasses of permission.
Outside, the ground wakes, speaking skywards.
The rainwater collects in jars and quiet, splashing pools.
They have the cloud memory of the day attached.
Here, in the cool of sleep, we collect.
We wake ourselves by shouting inside of dreams.