Bring me a flower,
in a little brown pot.
I'd assume you'd chosen it yourself,
spent hours searching for the perfect one.
Bring me a book,
wrapped in crinkly paper and covered in handwritten notes.
Pick it out yourself,
show me the stories that interest you.
Bring me photographs,
of your favorite places.
Tell me about them, please,
tell me about cities and towns and old theaters in November.
Bring me a pen,
with the darkest ink you can find.
Let me draw on the curve of your spine,
or on the skin on your stomach.
Bring me a telescope,
so we can look at the night sky.
Then I'll finally know,
if the stars can compare to the light in your eyes.
Bring me a piece of paper,
so I can write you love letters.
Poems much like this,
or stories woven from my imagination.
Bring me your heart,
because that is what I truly desire.
Let go and drown,
fall and sink to the bottom for me.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
