two poet tongues
that only touch
on tuesday's rain
blue and gray
and all cliches
but only on paper,
and its only okay
one paper crumbles,
dirty hair that smells like smoke
slick sticking straight around the sides,
I can't see the other face--
imagine a smile, or an upside down frown
or make up all made up,
or maybe just one flapping tongue
spitting streams of words at a screen
with an empty seat
on the other side of the screen.