Our syllables met

for just one waltz


trading sighs for kisses


and if I could write music,

you would have been the chorus.


Brush between my fingers,

I studied every tremble 

when your eyes met mine,


and colors flowed

as every sorrow dissipated 


like smoke rings

into auras 

of our blue, blue day


leaving us dangling


from constellations,

like past participles

connected in the beauty


of only one sentence.


2 thoughts on “Dangling

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