August 8, 2014 by Tiffany A. Robbins
Just Small by Tiffany A. Robbins
I search for a soul, I beg for a gift. But to be touched would suffice or even a small glimpse by a rare kind of special not even that big.
A hand could reach out for just a light touch, but a scratch or a brush, a flick would rush my jade heart to come up with wonderful light the kind that would break you or part of the world in a way not much common, but comfortable-like.
My flaw is divine, and I seek it with rough, intangible drive that offends but a few that matter too much and inflict on my soul the guilt that pummels and drives to the dark the light that could pulse.
Too much to ask, but not really a lot, in such quantities to make the bearded man laugh and the small children wonder at the point of asking for so little when the sun and rain ought to be plenty to satisfy the need.
Yet it’s there in my heart, yearning for something, trying to connect with a smidgen of kindred to feel just the once that ray of sun that quenches the thirst of the bodiless tongue.
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