Breathe me up. Breathe me inside.
you color your lips, and crimson becomes your child.
Maybe a color that has never been named,
Maybe a song that has never been heard.
I say prayers for the morning,
Ask god for a reason to believe in something more than lust.
Hold up your hands because there is nothing left to do with them.
Open your mouth, because I want to hear your mind,
every bruised word and delicate thought.
can you describe yourself to my ears,
using words that rhyme with our names.
Using hunger, using sacred motions that and never used between people,
only between the animals,
only between the trees,
only by the most spiritual prophets;
I want to hear songs that mountains whisper to one another.
In the morning when their edges are lined in deep red lava lamp blue.
I want to be on top, cling to the rocks, cling to the circle of a dying sun.
We watch each other's eyes.. hoping that they still shine in the afterlife.
Hoping that we will live as long as our imaginations grow like roses,
red, wild, uncut, un-nurtured - splendid like fireflies in a tornado.
You are my favorite dream.
How many times will I run my fingers through your hair,
before you realize I am consumed by it.
Undone by it,
By your eyes, by your laugh, by your adventurous lips,
by your mysterious skin.
I want to convince you never to take back the brilliance in your eyes,
what they have seen, what they have loved about the confusion of our days,
the moments that the world never noticed.
I love that you notice... that you tell me... that you express yourself
in the morning with your body, naked and unafraid.
Linger that way, stay. I would love it if you stayed, close to the breaths from my chest.
Close to my arms, close to my smile.
Andrew Tipton
