Almost every night
I dream of taking your hand
and bringing you to
such fabulous faraway places.
The streets of London;
where the cobblestones await to
grace the bottom of
whatever cute shoes you wore that day.
We would find a bustling cafe
and scratch things to eachother
on the back of your croissant napkin.
We would walk through the streets,
hand in hand,
exploring bookstores until we reached the Eye.
It would take us high enough
to see the place that we had bought together,
just along the river.
The wonders of Paris;
we would go art-hunting
every night after dinner
and count the stars from underneath
the hotel balcony.
We would find the lock bridge
and leave one of our own,
initials engraved last-minute
with my pocket knife.
We would take hundreds of pictures,
whether you knew about them or not.
When we got back home,
i would stick them to the walls
around our poetry-walled room.
And you would hate me for them,
but you dont know
just how strong my love is
for pictures of you.
But sobering facts bring me back down.
There are factors against such explorations,
but that doesn’t matter to me.
All I know is, they may happen some day.
Instead, I will lay claim to your bed,
and travel the world every time you hold me.
Instead, I will take you to the
wonders around our area.
Instead, I have written to lighthouses
and they beg for your arrival.
Instead, I will see the lights of the Eiffel Tower in your eyes.