Eat the moon like it’s a cookie, dine on stars like cherries from a pie,
Believe you me, you won’t find nothing sweeter way up in the sky,
Unless I wrote some words…
just a couple I guess
I could write them on a sunset or perhaps a sunrise in the West,
I could start the whole poem over and write it right above your head in the clouds,
But what if it rained? Would the sound of my heart beating down be too loud?
Hmmm, maybe I could find a big blue sky with wispy clouds where I could write all the things I think about, and I think aloud so follow me now, when I think of how it might be to know your sound, to see how your river flows and how you might feel if I asked you if you like writing on everything you see, and might you let me show you how?
Oh no, I’ve left the night sky untouched with paint and that’s an issue, grab a tissue, because I’ll be writing love ballads from now until your fifty two or three, depending on if they work and I have a good understanding of the love whom I’m composing them for and most critically, if she also loves me…
There is always the sun, which is my favorite thing to etch my verses on,
The earth is gone but we’re in a song and it is hot and it is long, I won’t cancel,
If you come too, I’ll call the song “I love you”-beautiful harps get tangled,
But love’s pure perfect, you let me write it than you can sing it,
Your voice is soft like a kitty kat, so sing me that song, what was it called? Something about my eyes hug you? Or the sigh above you?
Now I remember,
We called that song I wrote, “I love you.”