I want to write,
About The way you do your hair,
About the way your shoulders slope,
About how when we're lying down and I am curled against your stolid back,
I measure my infinite smallness,
By the inches between the arch of your shoulder,
And mine.
(During the act,
These thoughts never cross my mind).
Tonight,
However,
I feel the AM radio playing in my skull,
The static of the liberals,
The hum of all that crazy music,
Raw noise.
I hear the way your music screams,
And mingles with the noises of the highway,
I hear everytime I kiss you at a red-light.
I remember Saturday's spiderwebs,
And Sunday's storybooks.
I remember Friday night,
And surprising you,
With kisses on the neck,
And no underwear on,
And how dark my room gets,
At one in the morning.
You like that picture of me in glasses,
And I like that white shirt you sometimes wear,
It makes you look professional,
And even after band-practice,
You still smell the way every man should.
What I'm trying to say is,
No matter how hard I find it,
To fall asleep in your arms,
The effort is always worth it,
To wake up just the same way.