tangled touches 

— i was warned that you were no saint, 

your whispers echoing 

through my depths

as i let you 

embrace my fingers

with yours, 

knotting up tangle after tangle 

for me to unwind, 

for me to figure out 

all the smiles, cards and coffee shops

that you lead me to 

only to leave me halfway, 

mystified; 
— i was warned that you were a cruel sinner. 

but they were wrong; 

you sinned beautifully, 

your fingers worked through my soul like twas nothing but foamy water, 

tracing temporary patterns; 

slow and artistic, 

encaging me with your touch, 

painting melodies 

but

forever leaving before the final note; 
— i was warned that you sinned carefully, 

you left no traces behind; 

but you got sidetracked, darling;

my memories bear scars to prove them wrong,

they are laced with 

the aroma of your laughter, 

the length of your unrestrained curl on my pillow

and the movement of your fine fingers 

chopping onions in my kitchen; 

the faint touch 

of your fingers 

lies repressed 

beneath these rotting memory tissues;

— i was warned that you were no saint, darling.

but you let your guard down;

so for once, 

your memories remember 

submitting to my touch 

as mine remember,

submitting to yours.

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