the ball that drops at times square. and it's not new year.
"here, hold my hand."
there never was a spiel such as this to say when you're around. when this hand almost always slides onto familiar ground. like yours. like perfectly fitted glove.
it must be awkward for the uninitiated ear. irked at the uttering of endless i-love-you's. there not one, not even a plenty conveyed. what may seem sufficed, to see each passing day a day. for as long as dusk sets and one turns to see. there was you.
you must be thinking.
such hands that warm an otherwise barren palm.
whether ximending, or this times square ground.
if i let a smoke of pink surrender. what chi force will you unwind.
will you hear me?