Some days
I feel like that crocodile:
I would swallow this
whole
if I thought it could put you
that
much
closer
to my heart;
tiny gears,
quartz precision in
the form
of a chronograph
and all.
I refrain
and am left to marvel instead:
stainless steel
that radiates
heat?
as though
the tiny thrusts of pulse
while passing from elbow to wrist
had inspired
had invigorated
had breathed life
into its ordinary coolness.
Mornings
I wake still wrapped in winter's chill,
save for that cylinder
(that thin cross-section of forearm,
nestled under the metal's
weight
but remembering
the weight of your
palm, thumb, forefinger,
skin against skin)
complacently basking in
that circle of warmth
with that second hand
ticking
like little heartbeats
or little whispers
of little secrets
in little intervals
carried along
the intricate roadmaps of cuprous blue
until instrument and organ harmonize.
I close my eyes again:
and here
hidden
in the tender darkness of
bedclothes
with the day yet
unborn
here
is your hand
with its warmth
and its weight
here
is the verse
of your song
of your heart
gently guiding
the chorus of mine
from hundreds of miles away.
No half-digested timepiece
could even hope to achieve this proximity.
Those
foolish reptiles.
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