By Kyra Rickards
This is a beginning, the offering
of humble palms to some idea
of a formless hope, yet wavering
on the horizon.
We are pilgrims, searching
for a sign of something more,
of meaning behind the darting
silver of a glance, the flush
of blooming passion,
the soft curve of swollen lips.
Lover, think of me in the spaces
between words, when the imperfect sounds
of syllable, fall whispering, leaving
almost imperceptible ripples as they drop
from your lips. We verge on the
unutterable, the formation of thought, emotion
trembling on the crest of expression,
achingly newborn and unformed.
Look beyond the black lines of ink,
the definitions of what was and what is,
past the restrictions of speaking.
I offer nothing but intangible promise,
in the breadth of soul and bliss,
these words and a palmer’s kiss.