words by dominic riccitello

tips of your fingers
the nimble
hand upon your chest
heart below my hand

i loved
his handles, the hallway
conversation
how we held
without thoughts
lusted our lobes
drove upon closed roads

we melted our love
swam for all we could
searched a sea of only
the lone of our words
hurt which would swoon

we worked in rays
lied in daze
where nothing meant everything
and everything meant nothing