Final draft of an old, old poem.
Your movements still cause unexpected tremors in my heart --
Rivers of feeling thrum the line of my pulse.
My breath thready, like the hesitant wind among the trees.
These are the moments I hold in my thoughts,
Turning them over like stones.
And there is meaning in these memories --
This body, my fickle flesh,
With its topography of scars and sentiments
Has seen more than its fair share of beauty
And dealt as much as received of cruelty.
There is weight within these words --
I carry them in my hands like an inopportune offering,
Waiting for the right moment to arrive
With my breath in my throat like a bird on the wire,
Wings waiting to color the sky.