So many hours of silence for each word
we speak. Our lives are full and spent apart.
Distance means every word dropped in my heart
falls heavy with significance. Absurd

to let a simple cross or smiling face
feel like caresses. Tell me that you blush
reading my poems, there’s a fever rush
that thrills my bones. These things cannot replace

watching you breathe, watching you sit and draw,
face serious as if I were not there
Or twist a finger in a curl of hair
or tease a kitten, finger batting paw.

We chat. You read my verse. Small things and yet
it is enough. We take what we can get.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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3 Responses to Muse8

  1. lokifan says:

    Gorgeous – I’m really enjoying these.

  2. cmcmck says:

    I’ve managed three in two weeks which is something of a record.

    I don’t know how you do it! :o)

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