Movements Of Your Waist Poem by Uriah Hamilton

Flashing secret signs

at the dilapidated train terminal

in the autumnal rain,

there was no one to reach

and your black mascara

streaked like comfortless tears

across your delicate face of defeat.



I feel like I've spent my life

in a vast retreat

from genuine love and a holy connection,

none of that is meant to imply

any lack of affection

for the movements of your waist

or the melancholy in your eyes.