My fingers are too big to type

There’s power in your smile.

 

With a responsibility so great,

I doubt its gravity

will ever press on your shoulders

like I do after every “late night” at work.

Kneading the padding of your collar bone,

until there’s just a pile of putty before me.

 

A quiet purring, as the air slips into each nostril

only to spill past lips that have shared

their paint on unknown mouths

as mine remains virgin.

 

As my fingers work, so does your smile.

A toothy flash that blinds me daily,

that power; oh how I wish that power

could stop the numbness of knowing,

 

falling on my conscience

like television snow.