Peny Fan_Brecon Beacons

 i come alone,

my ransom clutched

in your hand.

crumpled, i come alone

my love as you said.

our fingers

smudge of an artist

on a charcoal page,

reaching for,


your nothing wanting

the space between

my soph    tication.

a pulse

presumptions, in light

of my not hearing you

in verberance.

your echoes, my voice,

my grasping, to express

a sound

the only thing i have (or

want to have)

no control over.

as i walk, fingers spread

to reveal a note, she said.


2 responses to “Pulse

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