A supple Sunday touch:
Hot skin reconnaissance and
the time for miscellany;
Your soft-spoken nothings
are sweated sweet—
Your suppressed laughter
and the shadow of a smile
are pressed on lips atremble—
A patch of rough skin:
an abrasion of now—
The breath-brush about my ear stirs life and limb,
and confuses the silence of twenty years
without him
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Published by miss truly
Young American lady, lecturer at a University English department; MA graduate in 19th century British literature and culture from Oxford-Brookes University.
Just your average Lover of Life, admirer of Humanity, reveler in Beauty, jazz singer, literary sojourner, hopeless academic, nineteenth century-obsessed kinda gal. I'm trying to inspire a silent moment of self-reflection.
Cheers,
miss truly
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