A million sparkly little pieces

I want to write lines of how you lit the sun with your hands and your mouths,

oh your many hands, and your many mouths.

Yet they escape me.

I never can grasp them.

Because these lines—

They instead glide down into the very center,

Where the phantom of your mouth is still felt even after hours,

Where they beat, beat, beat.

Warm and tender and bright,

With me, they beat.

I want to write lines of how these phantom lines

Pulsed, pulsed, pulsed,

and pulled at me,

and tore me

into a million sparkly little pieces.



*This is the first poem, in fact, the first piece of writing, I have done after a good two months now. It must mean something. :)