I'll find you-
in muted early morning light
falling around curves of flesh
causing ancient thoughts to ignite
and filling hearts with forgotten splendor
Twin dermis seeking safety will reunite
each of it's tingling nerves not one abandoned
and that rising sound of steel through icing's delight
not thickened tension, but sweet release.
Mouths collapse into endless fight
struggling to find air and words
the tongue lost in the traces of night
but finding moments to escape
to prove it's adoration isn't slight
Now rusty parts slide and shift with ease
and fingers clasping mechanisms tight
cogwheels greased with desperation
put out the flicker of shutter sight
grinding out sorrowful sighs of pleasure
demanded and supplied with might.
Anxieties of separation sedated,
the buzz of humming-bird like flight
Created nothing less of surrender
frustration having taken the largest bite.
the depth of this dawn on the horizon
exceeded the sun's highest height
though the later day will bring it's sinking
and another tunnel-like plight.
Another sorrow will build upon itself, heavy.
When beings part, there is nothing like it quite
And there is only one recourse I see
this fiction of which I write-
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...