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I want to have him steeped
in the wrath I use to stir my tea
and make him feel feathered down
‘til the gentle white falls all around
him
and his waste-side curve
of a crooked smile—
where words escaped
and gutted my insides.
I want him in my deep
right above the knees
and around my waist-side curve.
In a life measured in hours, minutes—
for just a fraction of a second,
what I would give
to dance,
the thin
line between
with him
where words
ignite
a pulse to our insides