Plan B.

Articulated emotional redundancy,
swarms of ecstasy threading their way
through the mire. And I
catch your hand in mine,
stroke your palm, and those perfect thumbs.

And dream of the kiss I am too afraid to grasp for.

The stakes,
my metaphor.

Negotiated peace treaty,
space heater, Charlie Brown’s
mystical getaway machine.
A spiritual encounter with aliens.


And in paralysis’ grip,
even though I can move my tongue;
I cannot feel your lips pressed against mine.
I cannot feel your hand in mine.
I cannot express the legitimacy of my desire;

Nor can I cross the line,
between your breath and mine.

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