Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, May 16, 2009


Memories toss and spill across
my clattering tongue as I open
us again.

It still feels wet -
the paint on the rooms of those last moments
when you almost kissed me,
your mouth along the air but past me
and I recoiled like a shy sun into clouds.

My face dusky, my breath damp,
a catch and your pleas a hinge to hang on it.

Sometimes our conversations feel
like old notes pulled loose from
a journal;
Shoved there in haste, stolen
minutes dreamed into their husks.

I want a vessel to our past;
I want to cross the taut second to your kiss
and see what it looks like
when we travel in our words, further
than we did.

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