Her finely plastered finger prints manifest his surface.
A trail that only I can follow, copy, and repeat.
A body warmed in passion's lust, to only her he owes his trust, and more than I will ever give and show.
Beneath my palm I feel her touch, a handprint that's forever fresh, and mine a simple overlap in time.
And will I ever graze a place, slide my hand on un-touched grounds, a foreign patch where I can rest my fist?
And will there ever be a part, a piece of you which I can claim, a space where my finger prints can sleep?
Do I remind you of her face, eyes so glazed and actions dazed, constricted to a thought of her in mind?
Tell me will there be a first, lie right through your twisted smirk, whisper something un-heard of to me.
I'll always be in line, behide her, trailing second best, my dear.
Cause in the race to steal your heart, I took the long road, and she brought the shot gun.


1:38 am Monday, Mar 10 2008