My waterfalls,
My dripping, lazily
In a forest of cumquat trees.
Lips moist with anticipation.
Waiting for the arrival of your
Poetic tongue.
Starving for a string of words
To lather on
My lyric taste-buds.
I sit still,
Beneath the shade of a branch
Birthing that of the forbidden fruit.
And stir slightly, when the air
Is disturbed.
My ears perk
My mouth dries.
I smolder you
with a look of longing.
But you keep silent
And reach into the branches
And hand me the fruit.
The notes of your
Descending down my hill.
Leaving my forest.
Still remain
a song to my ears.
---
Okay, I'm trying to get something out... but I can't. So...yeah.
