monachopsis
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.”
I gave you fourteen new words.
Verklempt. Petrichor. Lascivious.
A bouquet to bridge the gap,
You tripped over the carpet in the
dark and searched for my hand in
the white sheets. I keep my eyes
open. Black iris. Subdued.
Aubade: your song starts in the
dead night as you arrive home from
work. I cannot close my eyes until
we are finished; I want nothing,
tongues poking out from the shell.
I collect words while I wait for you-
counting on fingertips the many
paths I take to say I want you.
Photo source.
