Souls of my Feet

Your bright eyes say take me there,
your skin says you don't care where.
Your hair tells me you're caught up in spider webs,
and you said that every morning-after you make your bed
with the heavy-leaded sheets your grandmother gave you,
in order to save you the trouble of tripping on wasted memories.

Your hands tell me you've stolen things or two,
and some you can't quite let go of.

Just because we grow up in grapevines
doesn't mean we can't make time to stop the gossip
and get lost in the fruits of our harvest.

Your ears beg me to listen to the ground
for the sound that pounds from the souls of your feet.
Greeting guilt with grit you fiddle with fate
and make music to dance to.

This is our chance to try treating ourselves
to the treetop feeling of believing.
In midnight spells and shotgun wedding bells,
ringing like hellfire from the deepest corner
of our blood-pumping lovepockets.

Call it what you wanna call it,
but if I draw you a map will you follow it
step-for-step to the moment I met you?