to grow into my happy skin

to ink tattoos into my feet so they can

touch the grass, the dirt

the places you step too.

surviving off cold black coffee and the kisses

between winter-cold sheets

jam sessions on your acoustic guitar

fingers threading up chords

and voices sewing up lives

on their seperating seams.

i carry a styrofoam cup in one hand

and a world peace wish in the other.

sweatpants in the morning and a little less at night.

lunch is you tapping fingers on the tabletops and a hum

underneath your lips as i scribble petty poetry across your napkin

you don't mind

you call me butterfly

and you find something sexy about the bruises on my feet

at least, i heard you strumming about them while the sun rose behind your sleepy head.