The one thing that I hate about being sick is not being able to sing.
Music is perfect.
On the upside, when I do sing, I have this creepy ******** Radiohead sound at the moment.
I'm so glad I exist in the same universe as you.
I'm so glad that we met.
Against astronomical odds, even!
I will love you like a preacher
in secret sinful bliss
And the sun will bake our skins
And wither the ground;
hot, merciless, the heat
as thick as cream
stretching
those old swaybacked
porch boards
until they groan.
And we will swing together
in our garden, sitting
--just so!--
far apart, and our hands
on the seat between us
inching closer as twilight falls
and clasping in the dark,
kissing beneath the cloud-veiled
ripe pumpkin moon.
I will teach you the old things;
the Southern things, like
peach ice-cream,
that you made yourself
in that old wooden bucket, and
the taste of honeysuckle on
someone else's tongue,
like a first kiss, every time.
And how to catch fireflies,
And how to let them go again.
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