Apr 24, 2024
once out of the lake i will reach for the hand of my lover.
my hand will be wet and dripping with whispering proverbs.
his hug will be warm and he'll find all my curves, right where he left them.
a current will bloom and our bodies connected, hunting for traces of bread in a forest.
in the car still connected, we'll never look at eachother
captivating greens, the frames of our story.
stopped by a station of trains never coming
he'll hand me the smoke that a proverb will drop,
handed another the fate unchanged
still drips and it's dropping.
wet palm to the sky
a mirror pleading
herself for the meaning.
and then for his sight,
i'll still admire
blurry as he'll become
the cross, his frame glossed.
lost
