Memories of Shadows, Words

Memories of shadows, words,
and the flash of a TV elsewhere
spouting some nonsense,

which kept its speaker fulfilled.
My sheltering screen of malt whiskey
hid your talking with friends.

I spoke with my hands
you spoke with the others
talking in two conversations.

Their talk was of Whisky,
of hacking and fixing,
it could have been anything else.

I spoke to your skin,
your feminine skin,
smooth and warm as a kiss.

I had to explore,
to feel, to adore.
The talk had to stop.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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