I love the texture of cotton-balls,
And the way they simply hold form.
Their weaving material locks in itself,
So strongly it could probably withstand a storm.
A storm shall blow – as it always does –
And carry the cotton-ball away from me,
And I'll watch that dandelion float away.
I love them so much I'll just let it fly free.
She hates the texture of cotton-balls,
And the way their material coils;
It reminds her of those scary days,
The ones which held the most turmoil:
Her father would take a lovely cotton-ball,
And dab away her cuts,
But even with its priceless aid,
Those dabs were never enough.
In bed we lay tonight,
Her eyelids like shields,
Blocking my soul
From entering hers.
My arm wrapped over her arm,
I watch her a great deal,
Listening to her heart speak; reminisce
About the day:
She loves my touch
She loves my smile
She loves the fact I'll stay for a while
She loves my name
She loves my hospitality
She'll thank me when she wakes
For stealing her from reality.
When she comes to, I'll calmly say,
“I love your touch, I adore your smile,
I wouldn't mind spending forever with you.
I love your many names; I respect your old lifestyle,
And maybe one day I can teach you to love cotton-balls, too.”