We sit criss crossed
Altogether cramped in that
Small hall across
From pineapple and melon
Freshly cut and waiting
For the children to return
Your honeyed hair is
Golden now
When you dance I peek the goddess
I still can't tell
If you wanted to talk
At all
We make conversation
Not about love itself still
We do the dance and wait
For the tune
I hope it's not blue
I haven't mentioned lavender or lemon grass
Strawberries picked and in a glass
Fourteen tons of waterfall water
Nectarines and pure sweet nectar
Freeform written
Dainty poems
A swooning muse
Infects they're mortal
A ghostly host peering down
Sighing at our wasted now
Champagne bottles bubbling whispers
On quiet streetside Parisian tables
I blink at what I think
When I look at you
Simple little moments
And none of them blue
