Mar 2016
I keep this love, my dear, in my back pocket.
Neither a prologue, nor epilogue to my thoughts, it
simply resides in the middle of the flat high-way distance
and sky-scraping time. A pocket of feeling; the ghost
of possibility clings to my breast, where your hands grasped
my heart, once––our sighs but passive resistance.
Neither a prologue, nor epilogue to my thoughts, it
simply resides in the middle of the flat high-way distance
and sky-scraping time. A pocket of feeling; the ghost
of possibility clings to my breast, where your hands grasped
my heart, once––our sighs but passive resistance.
