All I have to show is affection
so small in the face of what I feel
that it’s more like a growth on something
than an actual something itself
A spore on the frond of a fiddlehead fern
A freckle flicked from God’s fingertips onto a nose
A moth swaddled in a cocoon on the bark of a giant oak
but it’s mine to give and it’s his to have
and all I can say is that it’s realer than most
I know that I may very well disappoint
But, at the end of the day, how I want him-
that iced tea on a summer’s day,
that salty after sweet.
those spinal shivers you get
after a dream about a stranger
who has never before touched you,
but somehow already loved the cries
he knew you would make
under the spell of his hand.
Loading comments...