tyreehoffman:

Amanda and I had a conversation a few minutes ago. It went like this:

(The Stroke by Billy Squire came on the radio)

Me: I feel like I’m committing a crime.

Amanda: Why?

Me: We’re listening to Billy Squire, and I have sleeves on my t-shirt.

Amanda: What’s that mean?

Me: Billy Squire NEVER had sleeves.

Amanda: I bet he did in the Winter.

Me: I bet he didn’t.

(I’m ashamed to admit that I have sleeves on my shirt and I listened to The Stroke.)

The nights when my bed leaves me space to sprawl out,

have left me confused.

The days by which I now measure by her

have left me happy.

Her touch

Gives me an indescribable feeling

Her words

Feel my ears with the things I love to hear

Her breath 

While it warm, gives me chills

Her Scent

Hides behind her hair in the faintest of ways

Her smile

Could shed light it the darkest of spaces

Her eyes

Cliche is cloche for a reason: I’m lost.

Some one asked me today

“Who is she?”

To which I replied

“What are you talking about?”

The follow up got me

“Well someone has made you eyes brighter and your smile bigger…”

My response:

“Her eyes are much brighter, her smile much bigger.  Just call me the luckiest man on earth.”

Maybe it’s her smile, maybe her voice

Maybe it’s the way her brown hair flows

No, nothing trumps her eyes.

Well, except maybe her porcelain skin

or it could be the sway to her step

No, nothing is better than her kiss.

Whatever ever it is, may I have more please?

Reduce my image

to that

of a cat.

Wondering around

chasing

a rat

With my friend

constantly

eluding my path

he has my

number, actually

my math

where happiness

equals

the rat

and I am

stuck as

the

wondering 

cat.