More than your lips
I want your hand.
The subtle squeeze of fate that makes no sound
and melts together like two Gardenia's kissing rain.
The hand is patient but active, it cannot speak
but sweat meaning into a summer day or shiver a winter morning.
The hand writes these words to you, more than my lips can resolve
to pucker against situation. And if I were to perish first I can trust
that the shell which cases my weight could cause a tree to grow
For you before it was too late.
My mass would feed the growing log so that soon
My shade would dry the instrument, my trunk would keep the wind,
My branch in time a paper make the sheet for these words
that long more for your hand,
than your lips.
