he’d lazily loved a lover of the lowest kind...

his fingertips traced

the constellations on her face;

soft as silk,

now he's fingering her wake.

they were like a merry-go-round,

circles, circles: nowhere bound.

'cuz she'd live and breathe

but still never make a sound.

he kissed the ghost

of her knuckles the most:

could almost hear her sing but she

loved love from other hosts.