black pokey forests bow down,
their bodies contort themselves
almost as to shelter their meristems.
​
the space in my skull fills the hollows of my ears with their groans,
or what their unhappy utterings might sound like.

Maybe bent paperclips on a chalkboard
or perhaps even a plastic lawn chair being dragged
couriering several laughing 7 year olds.
​
I could watch your shallow undulations,
calm and even, forever,
like a weathered seaman - eyes steady on the horizon,
perfectly still with only your breath moving the waters of my soul.
​
I love the uneven scruff on your chin and the way that it feels when I swipe my keyboard-wizened fingertips over the patches.
I could spin yarns of such splendor, a wooly blanket, a tangible sheath of the warmth your soul produces.

what what

what what is a prompt for you, dear reader, that I ask you to indulge me in. let me waste a little of your time.

what feels ?

what was the last thing you intentionally touched to feel the texture? what is the most textured thing within your reach? what is the softest thing you have ever touched? what did you touch that you weren't supposed to touch? what do you regret not touching?

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