on my one year anniversary,
and you were stuck
cleaning out the closet,
would you have been ready
for a question like that?
The grass is wetter than you
will ever know, the morning
still every reason I have in
the world. Oh, except now
I have a special button
that lets me
touch her hand.
Skin or silk. Love or zilch.
Credit or doubt,
I wonder which?
Keep it tucked under your tie,
because I think after sleeping
out that unpleasant ride,
and acing that test
with my eyes wandering
to that poem I just can't show yet,
I think I have an answer
to your question:
Even if I didn't need the button
to feel that hand,
I'd write anyway,
and every damn day.
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