Nothing ever moved me
the way your touch made
me desire to see the world.
Not even the night Bob Dylan
seemed to stop everything to
sing a song that dripped
directly into my veins.
Or the time I saw Jesus
in Nashville,he had
short hair, and no beard.
Yet your soft fingers
pushed past the troubadour
and the savior of Hollywood
to keep me completely still.
Maybe, in some way, you
are Europe, and this
wanderlust is simply my
desire to know you better
than I already do.
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