I’ve been trying to reach you
with one hand calling you over
and the other blocking the sun
I’ve got a guitar made of dreams
and lyrics that can bend the trees
with a dance that defies the devil
but, I wonder, can you hear me?
I’ve got a story perfectly suited
to be written for a children’s book
your face moves me in the dark
and your pictures remind me
of driveways and innocent drives
past blue moons and sunset lights
but, I wonder, will you read it?
I’ve been scribbling into a pad
mixing letters like twisted riddles
trying to weave myself a basket
made of brittle ideas and threads
bouncing from A to Z, back to A
forgetting the lines from a script
but, I wonder, will you write back?
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