Thursday, March 22, 2012


I feel you in my fingertips
far removed from the sterile magic
of the day's long end
the pale drone of traffic in rain
and soft confusion of streetlamps
bleeds to puddle grey
where light refracts
your shadow on the glass
and startles the night sky
with yearning.
I long to run my fingertips
down your nose
and bridge your lips
like psalms sung out of tune
and let the rhythm of your mouth
take root in my palms
and grow into something

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