The Big Little Things

A Poem

Francis David
2 min readApr 15


ID 24372701 © Harris Shiffman |

O you really do it for me, Dear Asha, I mean just look at you and your greatest parts.

You have no parallel, no equal.

So forgive me if I misplace my heart inside your chest somewhere, hoping it will somehow take root and grow up around yours.

There’s nothing regular about our thing, what we share.

It’s a situation I am most grateful for.

So, keep my heart, for storage at least, and when you text me out of the blue saying I look like some famous dead person it will once again liven up the dead parts inside of me.

See, I remember how you looked underneath me in all kinds of different lights.

I’m part of no clique, not any besides all the boys who love you, who treat you like a virgin undone.

You have that in your nature, my love, the ability to affect anyone you come in contact with.

I don’t mean to minimize it, anything but, but if I were the single most important thing in your life, I would be happy to play that role.

There’s a hot chemistry between us and yes, I’ve run away sometimes when things got ugly, but I always wanted to come back.

And so, I’ll come down off the cross for a second to beat your drum if you’d let me.

It would be to entertain you, of course, never to demand anything from you or harass.

I have good medicine, I can tell you that much, so pay no attention to the nonsense you might hear about how you could have it better elsewhere.

That’s based on the assumption that I’m not the best, and I am, I am the best at giving you all the heat and touch you need.

Let’s meet then and roam the fragrant meadow of our time together.

Our offspring would be fair, generous and noble, never frozen in the gravel of mistrust.

Let them all sing, the chorus of our wannabe watchers.

The chop of those who would bring us down can’t touch us today, so take that and this poem as a sacred sacrifice, a document that one day may be called literature.



Francis David

Writer of Sensuous Poetry and Fiction.