tell me the words sitting at the back of your throat...   the ones yearning for exposure aching to be naked at your feet bathed in moonlight and mist shadow dancing upon dewy moss as hope awaits a tender kiss   press the petals of ancient roses long fallen...

There is a shadowthat walks without footsteps,a voice that borrows my own tongueand bends it inward.She does not shout.She rusts.She touches the beams of beliefuntil they groan softly in the night.She presses fingerprintsinto the glass of my becomingand calls...