Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

missingyou

my aging skin
is the color of maps
of clay
somewhere in georgia
used to be
sometimes –
i remember that way
the fresh scent of clover
the perfume
of hay
places my skin
was touched by another
kissed by lips
the sun
to discover
nothing but whispers
as a breath on my shoulder
the etching of maps
to trace you
back home

. . .

Advertisements