Solace

Words linger unsaid;

no compulsion to fill space.

They are seen in eyes,

the way the head leans to one side;

half-breaths hang luxurious,

simply for the pleasure of it.

Natural rhythms weave calm;

lull without inflection or solution.

We do not rely on talk;

ours is a contented silence,

not at all awkward.

tk/February 2015

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Secondhand Scent

I press your palm,

inhale a brand new head note.

Dry-down does not alter its mellow ego. 

It smokes grassy through skin,

overrides all previous compounds:  memories,

migraines, cheekbones, jawbones.

Bouquet lingers like the last days of summer.

I hone it, catch it in a Mason jar,

screw the lid on tight; save it for when

I need odorous bliss, an oracle

that calms all sorts of butterflies,
claustrophobia, and scars. 

tk/January 2015

Lovely evocative read by R.A.D. ...

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