by Kate Garrett
every syllable spoken drifts back to dusted talk behind us
as we walk; a single raindrop lands in the gap of our clasped hands,
rubbed to mist between our thumbs – like the hint you placed
on the crown of my head with your lips, a sigh in the grey dawn,
a moth’s whisper. your kiss filtered down through strands
of my hair, tingled there for days though I told myself nothing
would happen. now here we are, at midnight: I trace the shape
of you in a skylight – out of body but wrapped in your arms after
reaching a point when we decide words are too much, not enough.
Boston Poetry Magazine 