Divine
The sound is off.
Darling, we are mute as
Love under glass,
Quiet as complicity,
Aphonic as wingless bees.
Your hands only -
Fffflutter. Sttttutter.
An agitated affection
An eight fingered,
Opposable-thumbed tic -
Abbreviated. Punctuated.
Death throes. I suspect.
I blink -
Ergo I cannot divine.
In all respects,
This is the truth.
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Comments
Hello! HELLO! It's so good to read your words again!
The first stanza is so dry and sharp - with such fine, careless metaphors (or similes?); very S. Plath-esque!
I have missed you