The Cries Of My Soul Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

This silence is a physical braille,
a correspondence of touch finding each word,
that completes a sentence not yet fully written.

I'm not apologising for my tenderness or being passionately rough.
Your fingertips find the cosmos in my skin —
I rediscover myself, splintered,
a billion used up ashes.
And imagine the world has denounced my physical body
and I live on entirely within you.
Your yearning moans are the cries of my soul — a coastline reforming.
Never burdened by footsteps
and wind lifting a sail.
Primal as a tiger carrying off its living prey.