Doves
When I'm old I might appreciate
the energy it took, walking around
so tightly wrapped, even relaxed
hands shook.
Perhaps then I'll allow pink,
undoubtedly you as well.
I never did relish purple,
and who else would stand still
for my spinning about
like some toy flung across the room,
a child left stunned in fascination
or maybe frustration.
In the end it's bound to be pink,
you, and the theory that choice
existed on some level.
For now I'll try to figure
if today we're friends,
or we're lovers, watch for the gulls,
that if blurred just right,
might be doves.
