Oh let me breathe you, poor Richard.
Let your fingers be the lyrics that tuck me in each night.
Your song, a whole note that plays over and over,
Like a wind chime on a porch.
Your voice soft and mellow, like the thrush in the pine.
Tell me your stories as I close my eyes.
Compose for me the words that you tuck beneath your pillow,
Forgiving gentle and delicate, like the cuticle on a baby’s finger.
Lay here with me, and let me beam as I glance at you,
Like a flashlight in the dark.
Watch as my eyes become heavy, with sleep and weakness.
Play for me your music, so that on the sixteenth note I might sleep,
And breathe you, feeling your texture upon my skin.