Poetry for me is not something that I can force. It rushes out, tethered by a phrase or imagery in the moment and must be grasped and quickly captured before its elusiveness causes a slip through the fingers.
Deux Estrangers Familiers
I want to redolently float through your inner landscape,
Collecting an emotional bouquet of your feelings
Lazily, slowly, and with appreciation of the varying scent of each of them
Who are you? I do not know. But you know me.
Silently I have come to you, tip-toeing into your thoughts,
You have awakened with the sound of my voice inside of your head
And the depth of my laughter is resonant within you
And I, I have awakened with your impression upon me
Like a set of sheet wrinkles softly pressed upon my sleeping brain
Slowly fading away as wakefulness tumbles into my consciousness
Who are you? I do not know. But you are familiar.
Your touch has lingered in the bead of sweat that traveled
From my neck down past my collarbone
And nestled softly between my breasts on a hot summer day
My hands have touched the back of your hands lightly, tracing your fingers
Leaving a vestigial recognition of my fingertips
Upon your skin that calls out for me at odd times.
Two familiar strangers – deux estrangers familiers
Will we recognize each other when we are face-to-face
Or will we continue to pass by unseen, unknown – still unfamiliar after all?
Reblogged this on The Impetuarian and commented:
Sharing a poem from my main blog, penned May 2014
Reblogged this on Welcome.