Fingerprints – Poetry

Fingerprints

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is an indentation of the skin.

Deep, thorough as they carry deep, and true.

there is a changing in the eyes – precipitation, condensation –

mellow slumps of the lower eye.

 

She says it

‘s of the truer.

the stiller, still.

 

And less then woken.  The urge to move the glass lips onto the pale ones.

Such shaking and urging.  Thrusting deeper into the mouth.

 

Not so painful but rather an addition to the initial habit.

And yellowing of the printed inner bit.

corner, corned, the cornet.

higher yet.  but not so shrunken.

The magic word.

It’s a crazy thing how times passes you by.  They tell you to live in the moment.  Well, that’s certainly what I have been doing.  Living in the moment.  You see, it goes with this whole, ‘let future self worry about it’ (‘How I met your mother’ reference).  Worry.  I’m not sure if it’s even that.  Motivation?  No.  It’s more like – you want to forget about it and numb yourself and watch the next episode of Boardwalk Empire.

As you all know, those who follow me, this seems to be a common thing.  A pattern is forming here.  I get into a habit, but then I jump out of that habit, back in and out again.  The magic word here?  Commitment.

I guess I’m a commitaphobe.  Through and through.  Ha’, that’s a clever way of putting it.

Oh, and thanks again. Sorry that I have been quiet, I do read your work, and I love reading it too. 

Remember, it’s all about commitment.