When the morning’s blue charts out the day – like an x-ray – mapping the ebb and flow, the borders and turns of marrow, I think of paralysis, numbing. The tingle of your hair grazing me in change of position. The think of gesture.
I want to tell you something about you that you don’t know.
I think of every woman you’ve ever touched and if drunken words are vessels of honesty. I think of the sugar plum tree and the sweetness of your stories. Stories you've never told me.