trees move toward water,
like my lips drift toward your skin when you are telling your stories.
oh, the words slip so smoothly. they smile upon me and wash over me early in the morning,
and i imagine i am on a bumpy road with my bike, avoiding thunder, destroying wind.
it's true i miss the jingle of your jeans, change in your pockets,
my hands in your pockets.
i will make you sing in your dreams,
my violin fingers spreading your mouth, pulling your teeth,
serenading our good, good life.
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