...
Salad fingers linger as dressing drips down the back side of a rhyme In between being flushed in the face with scents of garlic and liquor Dribbling off the table from lasts nights suspected meal left before touching. Waiting for moments not yet hatched in the mind of adolescents Stuck wondering what might asunder in a blunder yet to be made. Waiting, watching, wishing a touch consoles moles behind ears As wax coats inner workings of my mind. Slowly loosening a grip That’s never been let go. Clinching like fists, muscles contract until only sand remains In the brain. Remnants telling a story of before without interpretation of now, Nor bias of disillusion from a conclusion so clear all who listen can hear. Not behind doors or curtains but in plain sight of segments in a circle on an angle Congruent to the radius of pie. Never ending, only transitions Transform to adaptability of what was heard in words once spoken,
But now read.