You and Me and Ireland

Stare at the ceiling and paint

my days in something minor, anything

if you are not here–

reach out my hand to the air,

touching nothing,

wishing I was touching you–

and I want so much more than anything

for this to work, to just be happy

and be with you and I want

to never worry again, this is what I want,

I want to lie back with you and see shapes

in the clouds,

I want to write your name in the snow–

I want to be the one whose name

you write in the snow,

I want to carve your initials with mine

on the bent-over dead tree

at the top of the hill. I want you near.

I want to spin circles around you and

watch you spin circles around me;

I want these orbits to line up,

I want the world to smile down upon us and

say it’s okay, I want your parents

to do that too– I want

to love, to be loved,

I want to climb to the top of

a mountain in Killarney and shout,

look. She loves me.

I want to sing us from the rooftops–

we’re G major, my dearest, not

A minor. I only write stories in A minor,

don’t you know. I want to

bead two-columned hearts into your soul

so you will remember me even when I am gone.

I want to yell us from

the rooftops,

from a mountain in Killarney.

I want to fly with you away,

to Ireland perhaps; I’ll be happy,

you’ll blend in. Yes? I want to 

take pictures of roses after rainstorms

and pluck the roses sans thorns

from their bushes and braid them into

your hair; I want

to spin you around on the newly-mowed lawn

of a manor house decked in ivy,

I want to drink tea with you in

the library of said manor house. I want

to hold your hand as we lean

over the railing to look down

seven hundred feet to the sea from

the cliffs– the ones everyone

knows the name of– and trust that you will not

let me fall (I have never been afraid of heights,

but always afraid of falling)–

I want to sing you a song.

What do you say?

• 
• 4262 of 6981
•