it is a kind thing, to say touch

can translate to the heart; to promise

i will not be alone for a long,

long time, and it is a kind thing

to brush your fingertips along

my shoulder like a whisper; a small

gift. i love the tender tales

you tell; the gentle mythology

of the earth you want me to

see, but all i can taste is the color

blue: cold water, thin veins,

and the hand that no one

dares to hold. i have my own

story books; my own

god that fails to listen or speak

and my own angels with eyes

like ice and marbles. i am

quietly ashamed to witness

the poetry of your faith.