Thursday, February 14, 2013

Where We Go


Maybe it was a sermon the inkjet night printed on our faces,
Maybe it was the psalm that fell from the radio like rain,
Maybe it was the trail of wine you traced on a stunned tongue
Maybe the way fingers browsed your moles like a Braille bible,
Maybe the way your hair preached the soft insistence of curls,
Maybe the nouns our falling clothes didn't know how to spell,
Maybe the adverbs the flick in our lips unveiled,
Maybe the way our fingers interlaced like cotton fibers,
Maybe the way my tongue warned of its warmth before moistening your pores,
Maybe the way the mirror steamed as we exercised our sighs,
Maybe it was the awkward face your hallelujah made,
Maybe the way my mouth stretched your name into a plea,
Maybe the way a fingertip quoted the length of a lobe
Maybe the way a glow sated our skin like a robe.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
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