Of Muses And Other Ghosts

(7 march 1988)

Her Hands That Root Into My Chest


Her hands make long shadows on the walls,
that root into my chest like trees, taking up
too much space, folding around my heart
like paper folding around a present, she knows,
I told her, my heart is her's,
She's turning towards me, she's close,
I feel her breath on my lips, warm and scented,
volatile like fire, but comforting.
In the dark I cannot see her lips, I'm afraid that
I might miss, that my kiss won't reach her heart,
so I wait, the morning is not far, when she curls
in my arms, she always slips too fast from my palms.
I make up poems for her in my mind, maybe
it will make me poet someday, so that she
won't feel ashamed that I put her in them.
It's too early to tell if she loves me, she's not
the only one who said it, tomorrow she might
change her mind, but I'm not wasting this
night sleeping, I'm already dreaming.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, December 17, 2013

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