Katrina Kaye

a quick kiss by car door,

pretty lies from parted lips,

a look too long lingered.

these acts may be more gift than vice.

we were windstorm at the door; a dry desert of dust and devils.

i have become bold despite the hitch in my side,

the limp in get up and go.

i am wearing a souvenir:

a too big jangle around boney wrist,

a prize earned from the last match between you and me.

even now before all the whims of the saints,

I can’t help but to stretch out the remnants of what passed.

how can I see these rare gestures as just another sweet sin?