Tuesday, March 6, 2012

sonnet eighty three

seeking letters and lines,
rhyme and meter in this
secret language when all
i wanted was a translation

of your stares, your mannerisms,
your touch, your possession,
we fumble and let these
thoughts fall apart,

only to be resurrected by
your naked and pure
laughter, or something

i have never heard of
before - prior, without,
needless, spiraling toward desire.

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