just the fingertips
and the lips in a kiss
cold wind on chimes
and the argument is dead.
forget the other times
the boy is mine.
the boy is mine.
under covers cotton blooming
dark across the picture frame
a needle in the form of my name
we never saw it in the corner, looming.
just a twitch
and the whisper of a wish
forgotten on the shine of a star
and toted down into the dark place.
the distance is long too far
the boy is gone.
the boy is gone.
love on the tip of a tongue
barbed and numb
prone to breaking – others.
it’s not fair, so maybe we should just stay in bed.
About the Author: Æverett
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.