(for P.)

Near the middle of the room, there
you sit at half-attention, half-
languid as you run a hand through
your hair perfectly tapering down,
down your mountain of a neck, your hand
running down your valley of a shoulder,
looking left, right, and sighing
just a little.

(I see your eyes like cinnamon in the
muted sunlight: they were translucent.)

I run this pen down the page, trying
to form the contours of your face,
the expanse of your chest, breadth
of your shoulders—tell me what have I missed.
What did I see now that was not there before,
why do I wonder, with my hand circling
the rim of this glass full of vodka.
why do I wonder if the mold of your hand
is warm, is fitting in the spaces between
my fingers, if my chin will rest,
perfectly on your collarbone,
your skin pulsing,
pulsing,
pulsing.

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3. fuelforlife reblogged this from gonetoseed and added:

   day-breaking: Please tell me you wrote this.

4. gonetoseed reblogged this from day-breaking and added:

   Please tell me you wrote this.

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