09172013

adrift bug 100x100

Touched only with a word,
never my lips.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.

Though my lips shaped the word
the wind carried it to her ear.
Pitter-pat.

How much happier would I be if
my lips were there,
to deliver the word?
Pitter-pat.

But the word only grazed them,
lonely as they are,
as it passed from my tongue.
Pitter-pat.

The giddiness of temptation.
The pang of anticipation.
Too long. Too far,
I long for the eclipse.
From my breath to her lips.
Pitter-pat.

adrift bug 100x100

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