his hands slipped under our blanket
his mother was drunk beside us
"oh" he whispers
"youve got an inny"
"oh" says i
"you dont?"
he takesmy hand and leads it
himself to the equater of his body
"only partly, see"
but i dont see, i touch.
i look in his eyes:
could you believe that i still
dont know what colour they are?
its the obvious superior feat.
the secret i stare into
and never understand.
i remember each personal smell
the way they embrace
style of speech
SMILE
the way they fall asleep
their hair patterns:
hair on their chest,
hair on their bloody nuckles,
and
trust
everywhere else.
their walk and things to walk
JAWLINE
dear looksight,
their jaw.
but, sight! see me not
the eyes.
the colour of their soul:
constant mystery.
maybe i dont mind
their soul takes time
maybe its a big
godly
trick
i still have
to figure out
eyes, look!
eyes
eyes
they mention mine:
it is not mutual.
behind the windsheild i sit in the passengers seat and navigate.
click here to speak to me.