Your breath melts me

and I become the drop

on your tongue,

soaked into your mouth.


The separation:


to begin with.


The language-less

don’t know anything

has a name.


December comes anyway,

February, March,

I am reborn,

formed by cold

into beautiful insignificance.


Do you see me as I fall before your eyes?


Do you even know I touched you

with my lonesome?

About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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