Little Dints Of December
by @windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
silence, an immense room
then so suddenly obscene.
memory clings longer than imagined –
I say this in hours where I touch you
not with hands, fret you not with fingers,
kiss you not with lips but with words prying open
with gestures which unwound us ever so softly,
I unsay your memory shorter than it was held
far beyond what spring embraces solemnly inward,
that in light structure of night you will be wholly made
true in calmness what the tremors of my home
unravel with little dints of December keen with
its thrall,
touchingly you
without a flounder of breath or an ounce of caress,
are still written here, like the world answering
for our questions –