There are a lists of requests
which might sway the unseasoned–
the tireless cautionary ones– from
the thought of dress up, the tick of a impatient dream clock
caesarean ambition, jazz records, the evening wake and walk.
surges of disquisitive early-morning play.
perhaps it would be the penumbras
that lovingly sit in the most hazel portions
of each eye that would glance in each several moment.
Each has a story one must be willing to weather.
(Caveat: I’m far more enticed by being quieted by yours.)
Tell me your stories when I wear your clothes
and call you pretty
and take tasteless pictures of sunsets
while we swim in Gin.
Tell me on a Sunday, and don’t wish me any paler.
Wish me sunk in the sight of you.
There is room.
Of that, now, I am sure.