Poetry

That May Be, 9 (130.)

Words may filter slow through time every now and again,
and they slink through the brain
to be tugged into the console
that sends them to silos where they’ll be fired
into the eons of oblivion,
or, if you’re lucky,
right into someone else’s brain.

They could take some time to get there, though.
Words may be good at sitting for
a while,
which is why they become
such great portraits.
To peer directly at so many lines
curving and stretching into pictures,
queuing for something picturesque,
that’s what I want to do with my weekend.

The covers that frame these ideas, they
keep the art focused
so it gets to minds faster.
Eyes and fingers move along the page
so fast, side to side, up and down,
it’s almost sensual.

I want to read another person like a book,
slow and deliberate,
careful touches, savoring each word
as the manna it is.
I’ll keep them in my head
so the next time we meet,
I recall the best way to slide along their spine
and caress their mind.
The words beat that steady rhythm I,
I desire,
heart pulses soul to me and I wrap myself in it.

One day, I’d like to write a romantic sequel
to the last love story I was in.
I just need to wait for a co-author.

I may have been too on the nose there, but
I miss other words
mingling with mine.



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