a stone in your hand to be cast away on a moments notice
smooth inside and rough and ugly
a bird upon your windowsill to feed
let it peck at little crackers thrown hence from your delicate hand


with sickly orange feet it will hop to and fro near you
until you gently slam down the wood of the window and smile and wave timidly
from behind a thick frosty windowpane
a stitch in your side to appear when you are hard at play
and reappear
with dull ache each time you think of the sweet lime that gestates along the mirror surface of a moonlit lake
a warm finger that runs along the sharp soft edges of your cheek
and tucks a stray strand of brilliance behind your ears, braving a tight caress of the underside of your ear
a thick itchy wool on the eve of your honor, leaving you no choice
but to wish for cool bare skin and curse my very existence
while admiring my beauty
the band of skin, pale of otherwise, between heathered hem of shirt and coarse darkness of denim
for I am like such a thing
quiet and unobtrusive, sometimes beautiful and sometimes an eyesore
always longing for air and sun and your warmth
always hating the dark, the stifled air and the nothingness your non-touch leaves
always longing for your hands, cold and clammy, hot and nimble
always longing for your voice, like nothing or like everything or both and every all at once

zippered cremlin of your lovin’ style
come

do I have a shot?