Mine are unconscionable cave-drawings,
crass, cro magnon.
I have nothing but asterisks and parlor tricks,
playing to the sound of
cymbal splashes and car crashes.
But yours are fine things,
and though they belong to someone else I
still dip in a cold fingertip, touching it to my tongue;
it tastes like seeing places I’ve never been,
like hearing songs that’ve never been written,
like touching the hand of a girl I’ve never met.
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