Saturday, January 31, 2015

.Postcards From Paris.

I want a postcard from Paris
and fingers perpetually stained with ink.
I want to wear my hair wild every day
with horse's hair braided in
and lipstick on bare skin.
I want peaty black tea every morning
and pink toenails hidden
in hand-knitted socks
and to make oatmeal and milk messes
with a blue-eyed little boy.
I want to believe in second chances.
I want to believe in romance.
I want your calloused hands and quiet soul
because I'm loud enough for the whole
I want to ride bareback on a big sorrel horse.
I want an old claw-foot bathtub.
I want a Navajo rug.
I want a postcard from Paris.