untitled

2chairs

it's the season of her mood

it's his piano hands

it's how incredibly smooth the notes are when they slide into my ear

it's that we were young and fuzzy

it's that one brush against an attractive stranger

it's the tip of his anticipation

it's the wetness of her curiosity

it's that dissolving dissonant echo

it's crashing our skin and bone together

it’s watching until it’s just a blur

 

 

 

poem © jamie erin 2011