we converse through the random.
fortune cookies
and coins
oblivious that
every occurrence,
every turning of a corner
breathes the others name
gingerly
on the earlobes

our music is
organic, house,
and sparse
we dance slowest
wide-eyed and spooked
fingertips and spines,
pelvis under sanded palms

we thrive in secret
sweet cool streams of
our own wonder,
our childhood
our tears taste like our laughter,
taste like our sweat…
taste invisible

no promises, no promise
experience necessarily
not
required

we build our fountain
on quicksand
we suffocate delicious
precious few
attempts at escape
we grow downward

© Tom Watters  6/16/06