more than meaning

I am the portion of bone that broke inside of you.
I am the sound of waves inside of conch shells.
tears spread from the corners of pages as I scribble on them, thinking of you
and you are the pen that tears the page.
working your fingers across the lines of the page,
you find the smudges that are me,
you find the lines that are our meeting place,
beneath sinks and on glass-top stoves.
These are the sounds of mornings and afternoons spent
roaming the curves of you and lines of me.
the workhorse is our walkway.
we are the construction site of instances.
our touches are the well diagrammed sentence.
Together, we are the unfolding of lawn-chairs and the stretching of rainbows.
bigger than bold-faced fonts and
perfect for slipping into on quiet nights,
we are.
It is more than meaning.

2004-10-22 | 10:57 a.m.
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