These words are dust on paper,

The chemistry of love, loss and desire, of things unsettled;

Weightless questions unformed, queries made alone in silent, empty rooms,

like breath spoken to a dark ceiling in those broken sleepless hours.

There is weight in your kiss of my bare shoulder,

In the wispy brush of my finger along the small of your back,

the anticipation of touch in soft places;

of wetness and salty taste lingering on a probing tongue.

Scattered now, on whose fingers will this dust settle,

To whose cheeks and lips transferred?

Whose heart will know these tracings?

Gather them.