Another caressed hand.
Today another day a heatbeat rang forth in time for the tenth year.
The tenth chime.
The dot a spring awoke to life not mine.
A woman questioned she’d answer that she wasn’t there and never saw me.
Never touched me and couldn’t adore me.
I wouldn’t belong, like the wrong words to a song, it wouldn’t stop me singing along.
I’d cure my obsession to belong with the Ilk.
Even though I’d never compare to silk.
Caress the wrong hand along the wrong line and I’m gone.
I won’t be found in time.
© G.P Williamson 2017