your fingers brush my palm
outward, outward, again, again…
Senses
Taking leave of one’s senses,
they call it, when someone
is supposedly going crazy.
What they mean, of course…
I’d know you
with my eyes closed
and my hands tied
behind my back. …
you breathed in the space
beside my ear
i smelled the undertone
of your hair ….
Can you hear the hollowness?
That’s my pulse thumping
while I huddle in the gutter
waiting for the hound to pass me
Daily Poets 