The edges of me have rubbed away ...
All my corners, all my angles,
Acute and obtuse alike.
Clouds have more harshness,
Satin, wickeder barbs.
My eyes throw no daggers.
My tongue holds no sting.
Come to me, my love,
While I am like you.
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The two hundred and eighty-seventh thing I love about us is, when I'm around you, I only want to curse if things are curse-ably good, or...
Okay!
ReplyDelete(I meant "Okay!" like "Okay, I will!" not like "Eh, your poem is just OK." Probably you figured that out but I want to make sure!)
ReplyDelete