ceiling fan murmuring
skin singing an off tune melody
and thinks of him
her hands feel restless in their glide
her mind full of spaces where words
confuse their entry to hearing
her, a singularity awaiting to know
just a bit better
where to be
she lays across the linens, sheets capering
storm outside threatening
heart beating just as loudly
and thinks of him
her surface a memory, pinpricked like a map
her thoughts a tangled bit of whispers
that revolve and reverberate
him, a singularity awaiting to know
just a bit better
where to be
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