You can take my time, tie it to the bed. Spread apart the seconds and divide the minutes into drawn out mouths and slow talk.
You can have me because here I am free. I can flower or I can plant myself in dirt but you always leave out a teaspoon of sugar water. Like a glass of milk and a mince pie for Father Christmas and never forgetting the carrot for Rudolph. You always believe in me.
You brought me pancakes in bed and it meant something.
I read you like a slow digestion, savoured and not greedy, burning off the excess punctuation.
(I don’t care about bad spellings, just give me the words.)
Your devotion on my black tar days; the non-linear nature of all things when done right.
What we expect is only adventure.