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
and his waist-side curve
of a crooked smile
where words escaped
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
our insides


© Photo by Alison Scarpulla



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