W▲RP△TH on the thin line, be

 

I want to have him steeped,
in the wrath I use to stir my tea
and make him feel the feathered down
till the gentle white falls all around
him
and his waist-side curve
of a crooked smile
where words escaped
and
gutted
my insides

I want him in my deep
right above the knee’s
and around my waist-side curve
in a life measured in hours, minutes –
for just a fraction of a second,
what I would give
to dance
the thin line between –
with him
where words ignite
a pulse
to
our insides

 

© Photo by Alison Scarpulla

 

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