still, the back of my hand,
a blank, seething space that
ache to be filled by exclamations
of you and this, of here
and now, summoning the
black ink like it appears
inside my head, taking the
place of lines and of contours,
humbling the heights and
defining what didn't have
shape or form, idled by
mornings awakened by the
siren, a clarion call, a need
to scream your name.
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