The long and winding road is white with dust,
kicked up on our shoes. No music here
unless you count the birds’ music,
the solitude. Rest your hand on my shoulder.
This is not a time to brood.
This is a time for mood music,
though I prefer words,
those dodgems dancing around the fairgrounds.
In the morning,
your toothpaste will taste of mint,
and we will promise to love each other forever,
without music or highfalutin words.