She hates the fast heartbeat she gets from me
a poet’s hands are stiff
from centuries of use
but still they are young
because they do not know time.
The silent whispers are now back
A city made of cathedrals and its country, the chrysalis
My soul is desperate
For the familiar caress
Endless hours sat on a chair
Barely breathing the fresh air
What I became long ago
“You’ll sell well”.
I was told.