(there is always this moment)
quietly . littlely
soft within
bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously
pressed beneath breast .
the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;
(a fan plays
/
the cat eats)
and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts
there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene
improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;
My dear:
My love
of nothing
Little which
you are
not real
your hand is a vapor
of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.
(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
(there is always this moment)
quietly . littlely
soft within
bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously
pressed beneath breast .
the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;
(a fan plays
/
the cat eats)
and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts
there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene
improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;
My dear:
My love
of nothing
Little which
you are
not real
your hand is a vapor
of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.
(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;
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