the whorls on the pads of your thumbs

are asymmetric and

enchanting- as you press them to

glass and


you are such a

pretty picture.

you've got the

"shoes of an outcast":

i'm an almost rocker girl

with a sideways smile,

stepping up shyly to the microphone

holding it like

it's your face.

we are defined in the

quiet light

and i bite my lip,

contemplate your

features without glasses:

you blur and slide and run

a watercolor boy.

we are tracing circles

around each other;

i read you wrong and

wonder if you're

reading me

at all.

i'd like to lace our

hands & hearts