you and I have walked this way
a time or two before.
perhaps you were the brickmason
scribbling on that purchased pot
with hand-carved pen and found ink.
maybe I was the quiet laundress
easily overcome with the grandeur
of your pseudo glyphs.
maybe there is something
in the swing of my hips that reminds you
of times when your hands traced my form.
or could it be I watched
from some silent stone tower
as you shed layers of clothing
beside the still sea
and dived in swimming swiftly
through blue waters.
maybe there is something
in the curve of my breast that haunts you
on quiet nights when the moon is full.