Handled thigh
among a humid cold.
I thought in tricks,
accomodating your dead arrival.
It's been 7 years in our tongue's calculations,
you pushing me here to be a part of the slit
through his hair.
A watering hole,
a landing pad,
a place many fingers must slowly reach around to.
This structure is larger than my determined mass,
the rooms grow nostalgic before the past gains recognition.
Handled thigh,
I try to let that hold me.
Handled thigh,
I felt touched for the first time in the way
of not ever
threatening what
I cannot produce.