Buried deep in your work
you are inaccessible to me.
I lie at your feet like a book
discarded for the moment
to be used later. Now time
is paragraphed and space
comes in pages. Distracted
you look right through me
and into your mind, feeling
for a certain mot juste
at the tip of your tongue.
Your tongue is small
and pink. Enraptured by your
tongue, I turn over a new leaf.
I can be inaccessible too.
But no, not now, for you
are far away, beyond me,
in a world of capital letters
and full stops. My cold hand
on your leg surprises you.
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