softly (poem)

i press your spine against the
kitchen white appliance,
watching you bend into magnets:

it’s kinetic
how everything works.
you pull me in, wrapped around
your waist like a question
mark, waiting for an answer:

it’s the query
that tickles the brain.
i’m drawing a period
around your cup handles
while sugar steams in the kettle:

it’s (always) a process
of processing you.

— The Finicky Cynic

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