The Art of Asking 

I shall give you wings, if only you will let me.

I shall give you words, in tongues that you crave.

I shall pepper your skin with kisses like the summer rain on the beach sand. . .
Where we waltzed under the nascent moonlight, the day we made our vows.

Where we planted the shards of glass that we dug out of each other’s souls, into the sand. Where we waded into the salty foam to rinse the grime of eighteen or so years of absolute nonsense. The nonsensical grime of our brains.
I shall give you new horizons, a panaroma of colours to choose from.

I shall give you different laughters and tickles to echo in your memory when your hair is greying.

I shall give you a thousand splendid suns for you to bask under. A thousand suns and my gaze. For all eternity.

If you want it.
All you have to do, is ask, darling.

And it is yours.
Ask, like you did to pluck the shards from the emptiness of a cold soul.

Ask, and we can dance covered in moonsong and memory.

Ask, like you asked to fly upon a shooting star and burst into a million colours of one spectrum.

And I am yours.

And you and I can plant glass shards coated with dried blood in the beach sand.



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