SoulReserve

stillwater

I flow
formless
on paper,
a poem pressed 
under his fingertips;

at night,
I spill,
dark
in verse
and meaning;

his eyes
inquisition
the secrets
buried
in my chest;

and I ebb,
oh how I ebb
under his touch,
solely
for his reading.

© SoulReserve 2016

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