You came while I was just leaving.

You touched, and back I came.

I love this trick we’re weaving.

I could love it with no shame.


Wake me up, or don’t.

Shake me, I know you won’t.

The flowers are burning red.

Or is it our forgotten bed?


This touch I remember.

Do you do it with memory?

No, maybe it’s that thread I sever

With memories of wanton drudgery.


Begin now, lover.

Touch this cover.

Here, now, touch.

That, dear, is me you miss so much.





Well, couldn’t quite rig up the naughty, playful e.e. cummings as I’d intended (see the post from last week if you missed it), but I am quite okay with what got out today. Thank you for reading, reader. You’re precious.