Can I touch your mind with my lips the way your voice has touched my sorrow?
Can I hum golden-coloured waves with my heart to yours the way your fuscia-coloured tones have unfurled alegría-petals in my chest to my hands.
I ask not with these camel-sized, un-needle eyeable words, but with what is underneath all of them. What all of them wish they were yet already are.
My ghazal-flowered hands touch only keys, such a waste.
