tuesday

i.

i crave feathered kisses:
my crown, the back of my neck,
traced along my shoulder blades
be barely there
let your eyes draw lines through
hallways, out over the yard,
along the bottom of a river
before they find me
seek me, and i'll seek you
rather than pressing down
and into each other

ii.

all day on the water, browning
my shoulders, silent patience,
electricity of the slightest touch;
maybe we're reading.

this summer i'll read the awakening.
kate chopin. she writes freedom in
off-white sand, her stories snap and spill
like sweet green grapes on my eager tongue.

i may drift, between her words
and the sun and water on water.
will you see me, unfolding myself, blending
into the scene, becoming less and becoming more?

will you reach, wrap around the tendrils
of my mind, bundle me together again and hold me in?
or will you allow me to dissolve and lose myself
to things that matter more?