How many hearts have been broken?
How many kisses have you stolen?
Is it ever good enough?
Are you ever good enough?
Will the girls that pile up ever be the one.
Or will they pile up and never be done.
Oh so smooth and dreamy, you dreamy boy.
Will you ever think she’s good enough?
Or will I?
There are warning signs of the strength you can hide.
Amongst the cloudy grey.
And you see to it that the world will fit
Into your dark, comical display.
And I won’t mind if you go about spouting
Shakespeare to me.
But in the end, the biggest fault
Will be to terrorize me.
You were timid. I wasn’t shy, but you were hesitant. Our eyes met and you bit your lip. I stared back at my dinner. I tried not to blush. I wasn’t shy.
Like a backwards staring contest, we tried to see how long we could go without staring at each other. I felt your glance at me when I took a bite. I felt your smile when I wiped my mouth. I felt your yearning to be my napkin; to taste my lips.
I looked up to see you stare behind me. At the bar. You took a swig of your beer. I watched as the corner of your mouth moistened with the brew. I watched as your throat opened and let the liquid swallow. You placed the glass back down. I smiled. You didn’t see me smile.
We went back to dinner. We tried to stare at each other with no avail. After dinner, we watched as the waiters moved back and forth between the tables like a mouse in an elaborate maze. We paid the check. We said goodnight. I kissed your cheek as we pulled away from our hug. You put your hands in your pocket.
You were timid, but I wasn’t shy.
I’m in love with the morning. The smell and the damp dew on your fingertips. When you walk home from a long night, you find the calm in the sunrise. You feel the beginning of a new day; a new chance. There is no one and nothing that can deter from the morning or the rest of the day. Not yet.
I walked down my street with the cool breeze from the river blowing my hair back. I watched the garbage trucks roll down the street and the slaughterhouse unload a new delivery of chickens. They crowed this early in the morning. They didn’t know what they’ve gotten into.
I raised my arms up in the air and felt the leaves on the trees as birds sung their morning calls. The mist on the branches leave my hands feeling soft after a long day of cleaning and scrubbing and scrounging for sanity in my life.
Then I looked down at my hands. They are rough. They are wrinkled and worn from use. I no longer let someone carry the weight for me. I carry the weight myself, which is evident in my hands.
You can still see a bit of innocence in them, but they aren’t soft. They aren’t delicate any more.
But this morning, the dew kept them moist. Like a newborn baby, my hands were as bright as the dawn.
