The Hand On The Door...

we burn our polaroid loves,
licking sulphur matches to remember.
every shadow, every line,
on the face borne by a name.
in paint peeled chairs by dirty windows,
clutching our knees,
and wringing our hearts.
in the still moment,
time's collector hesitates!
and the longing of the hips,
weeps down curtains stained.
when god and death take second place,
to the remembered scent of intimate touch.
are we ever anything more?
then the kiss in the moonlight,
and the hand on the door?

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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