Is love something that can be taught?
Or is it something that grows in the trees,
Finding it's way into the air that we breathe
And the paper we write vowels on, and the
Wooden bedposts of bedspreads over faded
Sheets and dreams that end up strewn across
The floor in our haste of being able to enjoy
Things slowly.
YOU ARE READING
Froot Loops @ Midnight
PoetryI don't know why I care about your thoughts so much. Who the hell cares why you're up at three in the morning?
