it's the season of her mood
it's his piano handsit's how incredibly smooth the notes are when they slide into my earit's that we were young and fuzzyit's that one brush against an attractive strangerit's the tip of his anticipationit's the wetness of her curiosityit's that dissolving dissonant echoit's crashing our skin and bone togetherit’s watching until it’s just a blur
poem © jamie erin 2011