You do not understand the falling
of my lungs as they gently clap.
The way they must burn red for those
precious seconds of contact.

You don’t know the dipping of my
fingers in the notches of my ribs, and
how the grooves in my spine simmer
jealously for such a touch.

And as my eyelids droop sinisterly
it is my wrists which ache for sleep
upon your worried promises
that pillow against my weary fears.

You do not, or cannot, comprehend,
or will not. Your thighs are milky
hopes and your feet keep warm in
cocooned socks I made for you.

Let us believe not in my desires.
They are foolish abandon,
drifting like snow and clinging wet.

03/08/2007

Author's Note: Even my bodyparts want.

Posted on 03/09/2007
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