Up in years now
Am I correct or does the grey belie
And with each passing, Day
You touch me more
You phase me
Damned you
Touch me less
Take your sixth sense elsewhere
Up in years now
Am I correct or does the grey belie
And with each passing, Day
You touch me more
You phase me
Damned you
Touch me less
Take your sixth sense elsewhere
The air I finally touched
And found it covered in humanity
Chiseled, curved
Rigid, as it can be, and supple where it should
The air felt broken, but, marked with hope, was actually whole
Smelling of dust from the Day-in-Day-out and the patient, rainless years
I asked it to kiss me nevertheless
I’m glad it did, for I learned
There, on its lips, was the taste of us, each of us
I felt unsurprised