Syllabic Nevers

November 29, 2017

The frame of your face,

flows out onto the front page of last night's newspaper,

continental trade in from Africa,

bustled business and their hollowed-out streets,

dress up in the night,

for a game of come-and-find-me,

the mysteries of your skin cross the valleys,

of every country under the baking sun,

pillows litter my countryside,

roughened grass stalks,

not cut, not held back,

like the way you consume books in the afternoon,

pushed back hair sways,

wind betrays,

i can't find the words that your teeth seem to say,

the shape of your tongue,

on the syllabic analogies of someone

but not me 

i guess our history,

flocked birds to the sea,

migratory patterns mapped out for my eyes,

except one sad story,

that story in part,

the breath of each morning before my day starts,

beating falcons on city streets,

morning coffee and the second beach,

frankly forbidden, unknown and unbidden,

you and me never happened.






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