Oct
19
2009

3 a.m.

0 comments

Poetry

I place my hand on your hip.

Beneath a thousand cells ignite,

blood born in the bone,

sent heart-ward to muscle

that must not rest.

I curve myself around your back,

ribs rise with a half-hiccup of breath.

There are stars somewhere

but I know only blood, breath, and bone

knitting you together

under my hand.

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