Where We Meet (edits 2)

[Laura Stone]

Where We Meet

I like the way you trace me in words,
tuck me in your morning, sing me into
songs, nestle me under the stars
while crafting prayers that include me;
in the night when I feel myself shiver,
it’s you, whispering my name to the skies
loud enough for me to know you’re there.
I feel you.

You call me just outside the four-story
bookstore to tell me you will meet me
on the floor in the back corner where we
will spend hours reading to one another;
the sound of your voice like a bow
across the strings of a dark cello
that sings in tune with a lyrical violin.
I hear you.

When the morning slides open its window,
you ask for blue streaked with white
to be my canvas as I paint the distance
between us closer, moving your mountains
to my ocean and my dusk to your dawn;
a reel-to-reel of our favorite old movies
with you and I cast in secondary roles.
I see you.

I reach to touch petals of flowers
scattered along the footpath, each soft
as velvet skin woven like a cover
on a well worn book; you’ve designed
the most delicate of scents into a
bouquet, tied in white satin ribbon
placed in my arms.
I smell you.

You take my hand as I walk along
the shore, foam lapping at my feet,
the roar like thunder in my ears,
the salt that mixes with tears
when I realize that our lips
will never touch; the reverie
of what will never be.
I taste you.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

I read this and think it's very beautiful. It's a bit over-written and some light cliche that need to be modified. I'll come back for some more detailed suggestions when I have time.

[Sherry Thrasher]

Where We Meet

I like the way you trace me in your words,
tuck me in your morning, sing me into
your song, you nestle me under the stars.
In the night when I feel myself shiver,
it’s you, whispering my name to the skies.
I feel you.

We spend hours reading to one another;
the sound of your voice like a bow
moving the strings of a rich cello
melting in tune with my beautiful violin.
I hear you.

I paint the distance between us,
moving your mountains to my ocean,
my dusk to your dawn;
a reel-to-reel of our favorite old movies
with you and I cast in leading roles.
I see you.

I reach to touch scattered petals
along the footpath, each soft
as velvet skin woven to cover
a well worn book; you’ve designed
their scents into a bouquet,
tied with a white satin ribbon
placed in my arms.
I smell you.

You take my hand when we walk along
the shore, the foam lapping at our feet,
the sound like thunder in our ears,
the salty air that mixes my tears
when I realize that our lips
will never touch; a kiss, the reverie
of what will never be.
I taste you.

[johnnysaturn]

I agree with Leo. It is already very moving but would I think gain from being pared down. I would not lose the reference to the bookstore though, pace Lavonne. I loved the final verse- right up my street!

[alfredo]

Again I like this . Great opening stanza!
Few suggestions ...Toss away as you choose

tTtle consider "I Tastes You."

I like the way you trace me in with your words,
tuck me in your morning, sing me into
your song lyrics, nestle me under the stars
while crafting prayers to include me,
and in the night when I feel myself shiver,
it’s you, whispering my name to the skies
loud enough for me to know you’re there.
I feel you.

You call me just outside the four-story
bookstore to tell me you will meet me
on the floor in the back corner where we
will spend hours reading to one another;
the sound of your voice like a bow
moving over the strings of a rich cello
that sings in tune with a beautiful violin.
I hear you.

When the morning slides open its window,
you ask for blue streaked with white
to be my canvas as I paint to close the distance
between us closer, moving your mountains
to my ocean and my dusk to your dawn;
a reel-to-reel of our favorite old movies
with you and I included cast in the leading roles.
I see you.

I reach to touch the petals of the flowers
scattered along the footpath, each as soft
as velvet leather skin- a woven slin like a cover
on a well worn book; you’ve designed
the most delicate of their scents into a
bouquet, tied with a white satin ribbon
placed in my arms.
I smell you.

You take my hand when we walk along
the shore, the foam lapping at our feet,
the sound like thunder in our ears,
the salty air that mixes with my tears.
when I realize that our lips
will never touch; a kiss, the reverie
of what will never be.
I taste you.

[Laura Stone]

Thank you all for suggestions... I have tweaked it a bit. And open for how it is reading now.

Laura