Believing

It's not forced grown between us.

We naturally entwine. It's a

good feeling to have a friend 

who at once doesn't require 

a hothouse ceiling laid between each 

invisible touch. There's just wind. 

There's just rain. There's just sun. 

There's just you. There's just 

me. They may want more. More 

sailboats. More soaked to the 

bone clothing. More incidental sad music 

playing from strange pungent doorways,

but I like the music of 

your own quiet self, so 

delicious and sweet. Entwined in shade. 

In clouds. In swirling blues. 

I don't care. They hate anything 

happy. It's always been the 

same. Don't want to make poetry

out of it. I just 

want to walk down the whole 

street alive inside its spark.  

Entwine. Your candle smell takes me 

anywhere it wants. I fall. 

I follow. This is the meaning 

of a life of miraculous 

grace. Let them laugh. I might

agree a twisted tree can 

be quite the cynical sight, even 

cruel, but only if met 

with a cold, cold heart. We 

entwine and nothing gets crushed 

out of this picture of  us.

We entwine beautifully. I only 

wanted to freely celebrate the fact 

because I'm joining in with 

the chorus already in progress in 

your eyes. Naturally, we entwine. 

How would it dare be otherwise?

Let them stare. Let them 

point. They can't see into this 

dream. We entwine and certain 

stars begin to motor up behind 

golden sunsets like blazing stage 

lights. I wanted you to know.

I know you can't defend 

what you can't say you care 

about out loud. We've always 

entwined. It's what we do.