my pockets may be empty, but I swear my jacket’s warm
I may not be able to promise to take you all those places that you’ve read about in books, but I’ll promise to tell you stories and fill your heart with love and words and thoughts and truth.
I cannot lasso you the moon but you’re more than welcome to see its reflection in my spoon.
I cannot fly you to the Louvre but I know that I can paint you worlds you’ve never seen in the palms of your hands and the knobs of your knees.
You can probably tell I can’t promise that you’ll ever see Verona but I’ll promise we’ll sip cider and pretend that it’s fine wine and spin scratchy Italian records through the rafters all night sleeping beneath the stars.
And as it goes, I cannot promise that we’ll ever go to Paris and stand atop the Eiffel Tower but I’ll promise that we’ll perch on rooftops singing over skylines with candy cigarettes and watch black-and-white French films without the subtitles and make up every line they say as if we’re sitting at an old cafe.
I cannot promise that there’ll be presents every year beneath the Christmas tree or that there’ll be any Christmas tree at all, but I’ll promise that I’ll wrap myself in lights and ribbons, and I’ll let you unwrap me all for free.
I cannot promise that you’ll always be happy every day or that I’ll always have a joke to tell, or that I’ll always know just what to say exactly when I should say it, but I’ll promise to be honest and loyal till your knuckles start to lock and your hair turns white and your breasts droop and liver spots start to grow with cataracts on your eyes and winkles on your face and all the way down your thighs and we’ll never leave an argument bitter or resentful but I’ll always choose to stick it out until I see a smile on your face.
I promise I’ll try to be unselfish, kind and gracious and forgiving and I’ll pray for wisdom every chance I see. I can’t promise that you won’t fall out of love, but if you do, I’ll pursue you till you fall back into me.
These pockets may be empty, but I swear my jacket’s warm.
I’ll reserve my lips for you, my fingers and my heart. Also these arms and eyes, yes these eyes that look at you as if you’re a goddess most divine even when you’re hair’s a mess and your make-up’s smeared and you’re wearing an old T-shirt.
All this is yours for the keeping. As well as these words, they’re free, so tuck them in your sleeves.
I cannot give you a Hollywood romance, but I can give you love and I hope that that’s enough.
1956 Aston Martin DB3S