Font and Longing

I should write a word for you

with brilliant font and calligraphic meaning

Tantalize you with the think and thin of curvature

lead you on adventure with a trill

one word, one drop

one syllable to rest between your lips

and tease with the implications of my

wanderings.

If there was such a word it would be orange

with shades of red

edged in light and shadow

casting doubt o’r scandalous truth

a word to soar across oceans

pick grapes of favor and fill

senses with wine

intoxicating flow

drunk on flavor and

neglecting time.

I cannot breathe

for the lack of it

I cannot live for the

loss of it

and to paint it still would

be less of it

so I sit

here

for want of a word

and finding

only timid brine

meets my vision

a thousand miles

from the moonstone tresses

of your skin.

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Sunday

Hours

paint a picture of movement.

Yet, I sit still

watching paws tumble

over yarn and clammor after

stray bug bold enough to venture here

Page and cover linger near

begging to sate my appitite

Playing cards remain in boxes

Bills remain unopened

and unpaid – demandingly

set on the top of a pile;

papers unwritten, unread.

un un un

…  We all sit here

still

contemplating the pigment of time

as it meanders forward unaware of the

last brushstroke

content to just

breathe

Sunday.