if I could tell you all of me

through the tears I cry

spilling my love over my smiling, laughing lips

slipping into yours

 

emotions too strong to grasp

cannot be contained

I try to tell in half-sentence babble

love I cannot yet explain

my heart is full

with words too beautiful for speech

 

I could cry into your chest

the story of my soul

sing it to the beat of your heart

I could dream you a vision of me

where words are left unspoken

hoping you can see

Bob Dylan on a Cold Couch

My fingers learn to do yoga.
They callous at the tips, and I
cannot feel you nearly as well.

Dylan learned to play guitar before
I was born. Had I been in 1950,
I would have run away from home.

Your banjo sings to my skin.
Goose-pimples are like snow-capped peaks
And your song skis my shoulders.

I sing in the car, and the shower,
and crossed-legged on your cold couch.
You prepare breakfast and green tea.

Sometimes fingers dance until
they are broken. Dylan didn’t want
to talk about that, either.

Dawn wakes us in the morning.
I laugh at everything now.
Let us perform on a small stage!