warm fingers swift and smoothly
in the air, I watch the words
come undone in front of us,
they splatter sweetly onto the page.
you hand me the paper and
my crooked fingers curl around it,
your magic lingers, stains the tips.
the words continue a flow as
you thread, into my mind labyrinth
through the holes on my cloak and
I watch, baffled, the golden streams
falling with care on and in-to my skin.
if magic is that which nature can-not fathom;
your words as alien as the meaning befallen
every-time your fingers cross'd mine.
the smooth current of energy from a beloved writer's soul
