In the morning, rays and grays
peek through dark curtains and
I can hear the rain dance on
double pane I can hear some breath
measured and wanting I can hear
a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh
and fingers tracing cartography on
fading maps of Western Europe.
I like to hold the secrets of your past
close against my chest like bouquets
of dried flowers, crumbling in time
and dotted with sweat from
fever dreams, I watch you
sick and typing and moving
away from where I stand fast
and with increasing frequency.
It's only in magic that we
ride bikes, wet leaves caught
under fenders along a river
side by side in shadows
of a lifting bridge.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
In the morning, rays and grays
peek through dark curtains and
I can hear the rain dance on
double pane I can hear some breath
measured and wanting I can hear
a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh
and fingers tracing cartography on
fading maps of Western Europe.
I like to hold the secrets of your past
close against my chest like bouquets
of dried flowers, crumbling in time
and dotted with sweat from
fever dreams, I watch you
sick and typing and moving
away from where I stand fast
and with increasing frequency.
It's only in magic that we
ride bikes, wet leaves caught
under fenders along a river
side by side in shadows
of a lifting bridge.
