The rusty springs inhale as we plunge
into the dewy soil
of my neighbor’s trampoline.
As the exhale propels us into the muggy August air,
I wonder, gazing into the deep portals of crashing waves perched under his long lashes,
“Does he feel it too?”
We collapse into the heavy breath of the tramp,
his hand brushes against mine.
Oh, the hand-touch returns… what is with holding hands and all that? It’s just so SWEET, oh my goodness!
Great poem, I like it. 🙂