something cliché

i want your flowers like babies want God's love
or maybe as sure as tomorrow will come.

whisper me tomorrow of your hand and shoulder. red pressing through my breast to reach inside your yearning. to bridge your river eyes. wandering catches in the vine when softly woven. as i'm pressing back inside you from the cold; a retreat from the fingers reaching through the wooden door. loosing sense from the hand wrapped around my mouth across my cheeks. lost within uncertainty you found me. beneath the leaves that fell, beneath the shadows held. strains of sunlight found me, as happenstance stumbled on the vision of a lie we told. listen to the chords on sunlight strings that hang below the canopy. metallic in cold clarity of colored trees.