Ajay Vishwanathan
Cold Touch
As we snuggled
under the blanket
our fingers touched, our elbows
met, the skin on our knees kissed,
as if we made little bridges,
talking without words,
bridled flares on either end,
a shy alliance.
I miss those days,
often thinking of
how much little remains -
no gleam, no urge or color,
abandoned bridges, lifeless,
like we see in the woods,
unused, weather-worn,
enshrouded by creepers, ivy
that will bury them one day.
Best of the Net anthology nominee Ajay Vishwanathan, published in over forty literary
journals, including elimae, Haggard and Halloo, and Boston Literary Magazine, lives in a
world of words and viruses. He has an obsession for one, appreciation for another. His world
is based in Georgia.
Home
Issue Three
Cold Touch
As we snuggled
under the blanket
our fingers touched, our elbows
met, the skin on our knees kissed,
as if we made little bridges,
talking without words,
bridled flares on either end,
a shy alliance.
I miss those days,
often thinking of
how much little remains -
no gleam, no urge or color,
abandoned bridges, lifeless,
like we see in the woods,
unused, weather-worn,
enshrouded by creepers, ivy
that will bury them one day.
Best of the Net anthology nominee Ajay Vishwanathan, published in over forty literary
journals, including elimae, Haggard and Halloo, and Boston Literary Magazine, lives in a
world of words and viruses. He has an obsession for one, appreciation for another. His world
is based in Georgia.
Home
Issue Three
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Chickenpinata
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| a journal of poetry issue three |
