the lines on our hands
mingle with the
roughness of the fibre

of our skins

talking of touches
long spent

-

there are grooves decorating
our feet

our soles are flattened

only reminders of the places we've been

-

crinkles beside our mouth and eyes

they speak
of smiles
to faces
whisper of tears
in air

-

sometimes
we forget
we drift


*and just like the last time,

we're drawn into the story that never finished
- a story never told