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your watch
poetry [ ]

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by [dreamboat ]

2024-02-20  |     | 

It’s not the empty, inner face,
or idle, motionless hands
that threaten, throttle, stall,
that stop me gazing, as they do,
at our morning un-brushed version,
but the tiny ticking, ticking, ticking ….

meters the pulse, defines the space,
preoccupies a priori,
any schedule I might have had,
of endless lust,
capriciousness, fascination,
of waking you,
turning you over, ideos,
Deja-vu of tireless,
timeless licking, ticking, ticking.

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