Saturday, June 19, 2010

The One With The Finger Painting.

Dear Lover,

Hey there mister.
I've got an idea.
How about we take a trip to the museum.
Stand before a Jackson Pollock painting.
With our legs spread shoulder length.
Our arms hanging at our sides.
Dive into those splatters.
And stare at our childhood.
At scraped knees.
And orange flavored popsicles.
That woodsy aftertaste of the stick against our tongues.
At skinny dipping in the camp pool.
And running across scorching sidewalks with barefeet. 
At first kisses.
And friendship bracelets.
And the view from tops of tree branches.


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