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patrick-wakefield-1Poems
i believe in a story                (it is my love) the passing of my hands through light, the coming of slight graces, the bended stocks of mute flowers. my love you are without skin, your eyes do not see, your lips do not kiss. my love i love you–          (and where are you? my love you are the whole neatness wishing within me to feel the slight pressing of heat beneath your skin; the pulsed flexing of your vein and hem. my love you are the small darkness and tiny quiet of my heart to fill you kissing; the crimped weakness of your knees, the playing of your eyes after nightfall, the winking fleetness of your cheeks.) And, my love are you   where ? (i can feel you) even with space between breathing and heat between us;     my love i can feel your someday lips within my lips the waxing of your palm within my palm. my love (and i have always loved you) will believe in the story of your hands and lips: the passing of my hands through light, the coming of slight graces, the bended stocks of mute flowers.
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Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
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i believe in a story                (it is my love) the passing of my hands through light, the coming of slight graces, the bended stocks of mute flowers. my love you are without skin, your eyes do not see, your lips do not kiss. my love i love you–          (and where are you? my love you are the whole neatness wishing within me to feel the slight pressing of heat beneath your skin; the pulsed flexing of your vein and hem. my love you are the small darkness and tiny quiet of my heart to fill you kissing; the crimped weakness of your knees, the playing of your eyes after nightfall, the winking fleetness of your cheeks.) And, my love are you   where ? (i can feel you) even with space between breathing and heat between us;     my love i can feel your someday lips within my lips the waxing of your palm within my palm. my love (and i have always loved you) will believe in the story of your hands and lips: the passing of my hands through light, the coming of slight graces, the bended stocks of mute flowers.
patrick-wakefield-1
Written by
patrick-wakefield-1
American
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
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