Between Punctuations

Longing is a book sealed in plastic

waiting to breathe between fingertips

its pages aching to stretch

to be flipped, to be folded

to be fanned near eager faces

to be heard

to be inhaled deeply

chapters needed to be arched, 

and soundless groaning

wait with every lines the spine take

side glances are wisps of verbal scents

that escape

that taunts the resurrection of 

yellowing scotch tapes to find

new graves under the table

but until I hear

myself tell stories before my bedtime

and finish my sentences before

I get distracted with my next meal

Before written words are drowned

with the ones that are spoken

It will remain in transparent paralysis

and so Wanting is a stack of stories

perfectly lined, properly spaced between paginations

perpetually hungry between punctuations 

beside each others smooth covers

and unwrinkled paper bellies.

12.16 AM

Jan. 12, 2015