I say,
“Something precious -
safe, rolling blankets,
fighting for things worth
being sure of.
Not for sale, not
black and shiny, not
sharks or peacocks, just
small and soft, just
mine and yours, love, just
mine, not yours, just
mine.”
You say,
“Love me here,
let me fly in dreams
while I’m gone.
I love you still.
It is precious still.
We are safe still.
But I cannot be
still.”
