at gunpoint of tenderness
to put down the languorous "i don't"
in whipped cream quilts
you, mayhap, through me
reach for the soft warm
sky.
crossing out lines
like lives
with wich we don't intersect
you know we always pretend
that we don't keep in mind
that we love
to swing to the stars
on the swings at the playground
in expensive tea rooms, bus tours, unfulfilled promises, stranger's kitchens and beds
where we leave our time
beyond
retrievability
and forget