Wednesday, April 15, 2009

I will look through your eyes and see the painted door of our house together. The cracks the wind has made. Tiny fingerprints on the glass, and to the leaves swaying in the background of your lashes. The knob has been fixed a thousand times. A hundred times broken, then tightened again. Hands around it, the oils rubbed the perfect pattern, polished it new again. The floors, they creak, the sunlight, it pours, your eyes, they blink the most thoughtful tears.