I think your ocean eyes are singing me to sleep, and I think I want to hear your music and watch you draw pictures and read your stories
I think your smile is etched into the right side of my brain, the creative side, because you make me want to make beautiful things
I want to build an ocean and construct a rainbow and bring a smile to your face
I want to share with you the most intimate eye contact but I'm like a malfunctioning machine
And my eyes keep falling to the floor and my lips are like a faucet that's been turned off suddenly
God, there's so much on my mind, but it all evaporates as soon as I feel your presence
I start to spit out smoke and fragments of nonsensical things, but sometimes I make you laugh, and it's not so bad
I want to dance on your eyelids as you fall asleep and sing you awake in the morning; I want my name to linger on your lips and taste like strawberries
I hope you like strawberries, because they're my favorite, and really, I would love to be in a big field of strawberries, but right now I'd rather be sitting in your bedroom
Talking about aliens and World War 2 and ghosts and everything wild or inexplicable or mundane or beautiful
I'd love to hear your voice like a steady stream linked directly to your mind
I would LOVE to run my fingers through your mind and see your brilliant array of colors
So I can finish painting this picture of you that I keep in my pocket
And I can't believe I didn't see it when we sat next to one another in history
I can't believe I wasn't acutely aware of your presence like a wonderful and terrifying bird on my shoulder
I don't make much sense anymore but I think I'm an astronaut and you're the moon and this is 1969, and I want nothing more than to explore you and to know you
And it's a small step for a girl but a giant leap for a girl with palms as sweaty as mine, but I suppose it's baby steps
And I haven't left my bed in a century and a half but you make me want to run a marathon and a victory lap
I'm not wonderful with words by any means, mostly just confusing, but God, I feel like a poet again
I haven't written anything worth reading since I was broken and pouring my pain into words on a paper
But right now I'm Mary Downing Hahn and you are a ghost whose story I want to see and feel and know
Or rather I'm a youthful reader and you're the most intelligent book I've ever seen, and I just want to read and fathom your plethora of pages but I can barely tell the difference between consonants and vowels at this moment
Nor between fact and fiction,
Thoughts and feelings,
Disney and Pixar,
Or really anything
Anyway, before I get lost at sea, would you like to listen to music and talk like soul mates, Ocean Eyes?
