3/19/17

Standard

With airy fingers, you open up
the bottle of light placed before you
and pour the contents
upon my archaic head,
not knowing that what I feel for you
is opening like an orchid
in the corridors of my body.
Something like an ache ensues,
but it’s mild, pleasant. Our wires
interlock in increasingly interesting ways.
These days are soap on glittering skin,
and the residue they leave behind
warms and nullifies even
the coldest of memories.

-r. miller 3/19/17

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