they’re made of fleshy water, i could put my hand right through them
they’re not you. you make everything a shadow of itself.
i talk to them as if i care, carry out their light, wet business out of duty
longing to return to the land of your body, words, breaths
when i find you again, each night, i am enraptured by your words,
how your flesh stops my hand like a tree limb against a stone wall
it lays there, listening to your stories piqued by small laughter,
quietly growing over days, until the stone and fiber interlock
until they forget about where they met, first touched, and shared.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
they’re made of fleshy water, i could put my hand right through them
they’re not you. you make everything a shadow of itself.
i talk to them as if i care, carry out their light, wet business out of duty
longing to return to the land of your body, words, breaths
when i find you again, each night, i am enraptured by your words,
how your flesh stops my hand like a tree limb against a stone wall
it lays there, listening to your stories piqued by small laughter,
quietly growing over days, until the stone and fiber interlock
until they forget about where they met, first touched, and shared.