Poetry Is My Secret Lover

Pollen dust spills
on the petals
that only I see,
not even the bee;

the silver liquid of moon
fills the crates
in my neck,
like a lover’s caresses.


His hands probe
for crevices
where sensation
pool and flow over;

but dry today,
frustrated he hurts –
a bruise
deeper than skin cannot be love.


on the way to the beach
held shadows
in thick knots of branches

that did not know
where they went
in green mirror
of humidity, precipitation.


That was his last breath,
it hung there
above his open mouth,
half closed eyes;

my image locked
in his cornea the last time.
Do I stay still
so that he does not lose me?  


A thought lost 
like paper swept under table,
an unuttered word
fills space between us,

an imaginary kiss –
lips remain pursed,
the taste  
of salt on skin denied.

3 thoughts on “Poetry Is My Secret Lover

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