Goldenrose

What am I? 

A doormat for your shoes? 

Cobblestone for your steps? 

Am I meant for nothing more 

than a book, open pages, 

assigned by your english professor, 

More often than not you will find language will bow for you

Put your palms on a notebook you filled as a child and with enough intention the push will bring up sentences and phrases you'd forgotten

I.

A small brush of fingers,

Biting your lips to stop a smile,

Choking on the words,

Dancing late under streetlights,

Everything could change with one slip,

Find my waist, feel my heartbeat,

a community of fools

given the power to combine words

and a pen

that can write so much meaning

in just two, or three, or millions of words,

and sometimes, there aren't enough

I — 

I could. 

I could, love. 

I could love you. 

I could love you if… 

I — 

I wanted. 

I wanted to. 

I wanted to, love.