I only saw your hands
as the wind blew your clean,
white curtains around
seeming bleached and new
against the dingy,
yellow painted brick of your
second floor apartment.
The molding is covered in filth
above the splintery window frame
but you
your hands and
the crisp pages of your notebook
are clean
and good.

I want to leave love notes
on your fire escape,
daisies on your window sill.
I want to sleep naked
on your sweet-smelling sheets
and trace pictures of nothing
on your skin
I want to just breathe
not think and just feel
all the good fresh clean newness
of you.

Later we’ll sit
and tell stories
my fingers will comb through
your hair
I’ll read the crisp pages of
your notebook
that you wrote
while I wrote about you.

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bycatastrophe© 4 comments/ 3626 views/ 0 favorites

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