We weep for the morning,
cast iron hours that hold us solemnly.
They leap from their place in time,
and stand still, stand frozen.

When i watch them,
they move slower,
wrapping their silky fingers
over my infamous skin.

Sometimes they press against me,
begging to be moved,
alarming to feel,
pushing past through my desire.

I feel myself turning over for them,
leaning in and sideways,
forwards and backwards,
lying still on the tile floor.

Cool hand prints foil my memory,
with hearts in their hands,
with dreams on their lips,
they need me, they want me.

To be desired!
Their passion is fitful,
their limbs curious.
They touch me to hear me cry.