feeling sounds
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It is late on a Sunday,
my hair in a rut.
Anyone else might have left
but you,
you would not.
Through thunder
through rain,
you teach me to live
meanwhile, healing my pain.
True are the winds that speak through the pine,
But humble is honesty too.
Brave are the waves that crash to the bluff,
But peaks are forever unmoved.
What is sensation if only my sail?
Oh when the base drops.
Beads of sweat flying off of warm skin.
Lights a flashing in
synchronized motions.
Teens giving off imperial notions.
