| Where are you? | 8:05 PM |
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I always wanted some brooding songwriter to find my poems sweep me off my feet and turn me into his muse. I would be anything but ordinary then... little did I know then that I didn't need a songwriter's love to make me feel extraordinary, sometimes i do a pretty good job of that myself. xo
He'd fumble hid fingers absentmindedly
through brown tussled hair
as he searched for the perfect melody
to bring my words alive
stone washed jeans
would lay crumpled on the hardwood floor
next to to bright red shoes
that he taps to keep time.
He'd peer down at my poems
a curve on his lips
as he picked at the strings of his old guitar
swaying forth
my words dripping like molasses
from between his teeth
He'd peer up
crinkling his nose in a laugh
as he watched me dance
Listen to this- Augustana- Sunday Best
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