take hold of these arms, craft the promises i make
into solid gold after hours comfort. in the battle of
head versus heart, well, Sweetheart,
i do believe you have won me over.
your mother will cry tears of joy as your temporary father,
alive for the afternoon, will be unable to say
what he truly needs to say.
the father-daughter dance
has been scrapped for the occasion -
there’s no need to make the situation
more awkward that it already is.
cradle the love that falls from the sky.
having Jesus in your back pocket means that
everything is going to be okay.
smile for the camera,
there are memories to be made.
sink into this feeling of hope,
into the foreign sensation of lying heavy
in the arms of another.
twenty years from now
it will all come crumbling down
rather majestically, tragically,
taking your trio of composite creations along
for the sick sorry ride.
