Speak To Me

Speak to me of tempest storms
Of fiery fevered rows

And I’ll tell you of my lover’s hand
Upon my worried brow.

Speak to me of sonnets sweet
Of sunkissed morning air

And I’ll tell you of my lover’s grace
Of breathing in her hair.

Speak to me of gentle doves
Of kindness towards all

And I’ll tell you of my lover’s heart
Of how in I fell in love.


No, I'm not switching teams. One of my dearest friends...ok, two of my dearest friends were married last night and I wrote this in honor of MWR-Guy. As I wrote it, though, I thought of myself, of my need to fall in love with myself. I'm not switching teams, but I'm considering taking myself out of the batter's box for awhile. I'm reading a book with my No Sex in the City girlfriends called "Solemates, the art of living alone". I never took the requisite year off after my divorce. Perhaps it's time I gave that a try.

We'll see.