the roundness of your being
the curl of hair
and of eyes, lips, inside a circling face
the small fingers which poke me
or which become hands that hold mine
on the floor of a small room
laid out across the carpet

our bodies
drawn out into a single line
your hands, your eyes
holding words and secrets
like the tiny cups they seem to be
held out in front of me
dry
asking to be filled

and I
ever in need of a vessel