every time
it is
that i write
my thoughts
wander
to your body.
they stray
from my
wooden
and wicker
writing chair
to sit and swing
on the seat
of the curl
of your brown and gold
hair.
I don't have the mind
to send those spies,
but they report
back to me
anyway.
I know of your comings,
they say where you go,
and I know-
I just know-
truth hides
behind
your eyelashes.
that's why I watch,
when I know
I'm not wanted.
it's because-
just because-
you hold
the secrets
that could keep the world
from falling
off-
No.
-I mean
deserting
the course onto which
it's already
fallen.
how do you
keep
your skin
so smooth
'midst
the creases
that fold this world
into misery?
and your eyes,
they stand
so
high
already.
what allows them
to keep their poise
when the rest of us
are well acquainted with
little more
than the ground?
your left shoe lace
is undone,
did you know?
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