I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.

© Chagall ∞

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