A little bit of poetry on a sleepy Friday morning? Sure.
I once wrote about rain and skeletons. I asked for them back, but you can’t get words back. Fingers twisted and crushed and words became noise and something to hold out of reach, just like a heavy heart. You can’t get words back.
You can’t get time back. You can’t get back the first rose blush of love.
But that’s good, because you don’t want it back.
You want white flags and white doves and a red heart, more alive than hope. A heart dripping something so hot it burns through the floors of doubt in a house made of glass. So loud they can hear it in the street.
Do you want my white flags? Do you want my white doves so full of promise they can’t get to the clouds fast enough? Do you want my red heart?
It’s loud and hot and my doubt is crashing so hard I’m catching shards of shrapnel like shooting stars, and every wish is sitting six hundred miles away painting a red heart onto a white canvas.
I said I’d never give away words again, but you can have them all. No more glass houses, just your arms. Go paint our hearts on your canvas and give me every burning constellation you’ve got in your eyes.
Let’s break every bit of glass in this place if it means making galaxies so bright I can’t think of anything other than kissing you under the stars.