On the balls of my feet

Fingertips like a swan feather.
Always a foreign touch,
not unwelcome in its attempt to take
lodging somewhere around my humidity thickened skin
and I can never touch you back the way you do for me.
There is no real estate that you claim on your body
that I can inhabit. You’re open to it
more than you think, you’re open to love.
Always wearing the right shoes to get caught in the rain.
But I wear a vocal heart. Though it thumps against pressure of another,
betrays my best hiding places,
I still reside somewhere
under lock and key,
undiscovered even to myself.
I wait
I wait
I wait to run from your warm belly like a burning building
and your hand like our collapsing home,
and your eyes like the streaks of light through blinds.
I will slow my feet soon.


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