>The Way

>

The way my hand rests knuckle to cheek
earlobe sweating into receiver straining
some promise to pass lips.

Your Popsicle stick, sticky fingers
drum the rhythm back
once, twice, twenty times
along a Morse code of desire.

I tumbleweed phone lines out the door.
Find you standing in the road,
boots dirty, eyes
cocked toward the horizon
tapping your heartbeat into
the asphalt of my expectations.

I dream this
This, the stopping.
This, the missing.

Trees fall when the wind discovers
their roots are shallow, sandy, sobbing.
Why willows are called weeping.
Why Cacti have spines.

The way I fall for you.
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2 thoughts on “>The Way

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