newton

from love is a watched pot that never boils

  

newton

I know this may never find it’s way to you,
whatever this is.
a letter,
a poem,
a half dream made in a delirium.

however improbable–
I hope it does.
pray that some august evening
finds you with this,
whatever this is

it’s words will reveal my sigh
how you strike me mute
and how my brow softens,
my hands,
resigned,
throw themselves with sudden gravity
down to my side, and I look your way
with all the fondness
my frail heart can forage.

my eyes,
they struggle in vain
toward you.
and yearn
to tell you of how,
I want badly to kiss you.
my thumb’s palm to stroke
the milky smooth film
of your cheek,
and your skin that looks
to feel like
what skin feels like
after being caught in a sunny rainstorm,
midday in june.

I want to hold you by the small of your back
in a silhouette
with williamsburg behind us
and void alone ahead.

your coat envelops your supple frame
and beneath a sleeve your slender hands hide.
cloth stretches down to the creases
of long fingers and you lay them,
onto the skin of my forearm,
my hand placed on your waist and
my lips below your earlobe.

but you’re no longer
looking at me
and the hollows of your eyes
cast shadows ad infinitum
your face is turned from mine

there in my arms,
on rain drenched streets in brooklyn
you are with me,
but alone.
and I,
I’m the same as the others.

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