||in the right light, i can see the tiny black hairs that sit|
above your lip that surely will someday grow thick but i
do always, and will always want to kiss your sweet face, 'cause
what you give to me is what the wind gives the desert sands.
when you sing, your voice is thin and always hitting the wrong
note, but i love to hear you sing, and there's more beautiful
music in your laughter and in your eyes than
any of the great composers could come up with in a lifetime.
i love the thousands of words you can say with different
silent smiles, and i love every one of the (exactly)
one hundred freckles that i've counted across your body -
i even love the blue veins in your breasts (that i can see
when your heart's been beating hard and your blood's flowing fast), 'cause
you give me what the wind gives to a golden field of wheat.
Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien