I have moments where I hope
if I listen to country songs long enough
its processed pop-banjo twang can convince me
that I want to fall in love with your image
because I have walked the dirt roads
of your eyes until my feet blistered;
sifted mud seeping between my toes
until I discovered that your
grey-blue-moon-stones sparkle
like lost gemstones in the rough
that got tossed around one too many times
in my callused hands because I
have forgotten how to be gentle
but baby, I am learning
how to feel safe in your arms
and I swear someday I will figure out
how to kiss away the bruises I cause
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