an unrequited tale

These questioning hands
build sentence structures with
the fragmented pieces of my heart
languid in their hopeless journey along
the curve of your shoulder.
Their inflection shows vulnerability,
the "hows" and "whys" and
what does it reduce itself down to?
the smallest numbers
infinite - minute.
the building blocks of time.
the tiniest steps, the stairway leading nowhere,
feet hitting pavement, the crackling of bones
and an eagerness to crumble into myself in your arms.

these wandering fingertips
are writing stories.
telling tales, recording information in the dark.
just useful data
stored in the crevices of my fingerprints,
lined up neatly in the maze of skin cells and follicles.
dying to be built into words and
the countless dimly-lit images.
This laughing and vaporized sighing.

and then the moment's passed,
dissolved into twilight.