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Just Another Night

Sometimes I come home and I rant, and I shift the truth because it sounds prettier that way. We can do that sometimes. In fiction, there are no rules upon truth. It's a beautiful thing.
We lay in the bed of his truck on our backs,
Nearing two in the morning, eying up at the stars,
We must've seen five or six shooting stars that night,
And cast wishes for each one.

The desert air was unadulterated,
And the tepid breeze passed through from the mountains,
Your heavy shoulder brushed against mine,
My awkward legs didn't know how they wanted to come to rest.

I must've bend and unbent them 50 times,
We talked about everything under the moon,
I wanted so avidly just to tell you,
Where to kiss me when we found a place to go...

But amidst the stars isn't just empty space,
And between the layers isn't such a guiltless paste;
It makes me wonder who,
And where I'll be in the next ten years.

You tell me in your southern drawl that we'll rather be married,
Or have killed each other by then,
And trail it with a slow chuckle,
And I wonder hard about what you wished all those times,
And if I said what I wanted to say and do what we've wanted to do,
If any of those wishes you put on those stars would come true...
By
Published: 9/6/2012
Reflections of the Mind...
Bouquets and Brickbats