I know not how many moments we left unlived,
holding in the lining of a kiss ungiven
or left to wander the streets uncertain,
forever weak at the knees.

I am, but a word
buried in the spirit of intention, lost in the tic-toc of time
yet a phrase that grows free  
from truth so blindingly sweet
it can only fall from your lips.

One that wants and breaks
at the top of the lungs
when yearn uncontained folds me in your touch
forms me in your arms
-clay within your hands.

I am the space between dreams
that wilted in the tired hour,
carry without strength in the wind
yet for a moment, a brief moment
I still stray in the scent
of your skin.