Dead flowers and my verbal poetry.
I came to you with some Tennessee whiskey and a small plant with rosemary trying to grow. I sat on your porch, waiting for you. I wanted to see your morning face, drink the fresh coffee and to hear your voice again.
We were great lovers once and we faded to needed friends. You brought the coffee, wearing t-sheet and barefoot. You sat with me and I reached over and I brought your feet to my lap. I caressed them and I asked. Are you alright?
You smiled and you asked. You miss me honey? I told you many times. Always room for you in my large bed. I called you last night. You sounded somber and I heard the bar songs. Johnnie, you know I hate picked flower and I love the plant of the rosemary. You know my heart, in and out. Johnnie, we must bury the dead flowers. War, regret and lost, we have known. You have been my only friend. Old house is empty without you. You and I need to sing our songs again.
I lay my head into your lap and you caressed me like a child and sang.
“Baby, love, sweet friend.
Close your eyes,
relax the mind.
We will be alright.
Stay with me tonight,
stay with me tomorrow,
stay with me till the end of time.
You and I.
Only peace we shall find.
Baby, love, sweet friend.
All of us are alone.
All of us need a kind voice and love near.”
The morning sun is rising and two people holding silence and love tightly,
waiting for a miracle and the blessing of love.