It is

isn't life interesting...

I guess I don't really have anything dramatic going on in my life today - nothing that really inspires me to write anyway...
However, the poems are always flowing out of me...and so here I go.


Recall

Wrapped in you
brushing against your cotton skin
warming the flannel
skin glistening with the humidity

Smell lingers there
In between where we lay
the night before the night
pressed into the folds of each other

beating against my back
your heart is deep inside of you
so exposed under all of its layers
unable to be discerned from your words

intoxicated by liquid dreams
of an invisible siesta on sunday
you keep me locked away
in your mind

touch can only go so deep
words only sound for so long
actions only reverberate in the action
where does the energy go?