The Sweet Nothing

Come inside, lie down with me. 

Rest your weary legs, so if we

Are meant to slip away in a dream,

It's on these sheets and not elsewhere.

Now, turn away. If you've grown out your hair,

I'll braid in a secret in there somewhere.

All my regrets I will ravel in.

If not, with my finger, the blunt javelin

I'll carve the words on top of your skin.

I'll let you speak till your mouth feels sore.

I'll lock your words in a hid-away drawer,

I'll throw the key to a place far flung.

I'll keep your taste on the back of my tongue.

I'll never ask when it turned so sour. 

Instead, in my head I will build you a tower

Where we will live and once in an hour,

I will water your tiniest flower;

Your thoughts in precocious bloom.

Dust my shoulders with your broken broom.

Color me golden so I have no room

On my body for anything silver.

(When I sigh I can sense that you quiver.

When you whisper, I shiver like winter.) 

Lie down with me.