you had me at Tropic of Capricorn You, with your blue moods and 2500-mile stare, when can i run my hands through the summer of your hair? You are more precious to me than ice cream and cotton candy at a Carolina fair.
You, with your pasta plate, and poetic cites a-ready, hungry, restless, 6:00 a.m., because these times are heady. I can't wait to smash your plate and make you hot and sweaty. Is it you, "love's chosen love"? (Mary Baker Eddy)
Some old poet wouldn't you know it, said "Tis is a consummation devoutly to be wished." These hours past counted, forward interminably stretching, Ain't it "Strange, how we suffer in spite of this"?