by m. paolo macariola
our arms brushed
in the moist of the afternoon;
our first touch,
the first kiss of the holes
on our skin,
where breathes sea currents
nurtured by the smiling sun.
the pichi pichis
you held could have felt
the tremors, the undersea volcanoes
inside my chest,
erupting...
into the moist of the afternoon
sprinkled like sand
on our arms
when they touched into earthquakes
from our colliding
continents
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