Herself

I consider you, with slanted smile and perfectly arched brows
watching the poetry drip from your mouth, 

believe believe you cry!
and I do
when the wind scatters them to dust,
yet

If I'm still enough, sometimes I can feel them
brush across my skin, like a lovers touch

You consider me, my despondent demeanor
cold and aloof
poetry too drips from my mouth(sighs unswallowed)
I do not ask you to believe,
yet
still you do, like a lover, starving for touch