What am I but a belief?

A noun with legs, 

A lover with an itch, 

No arms. 

A train,

Rushing and panting,

It screams “wait for me” while running passed it.

It’s July and the city is wet 

Her lights dribble down her legs till they reach the Hudson

To drain it all like a lonely gambler

Poetry doesn’t require a point

Just a spine

Each one of your teeth

A vertebrae

So I write you

A stranger, for now

But a lover forever 

With a little temper

But a soft side from your mother

& I can’t say the same

I don’t have thick skin

I’m a writer, you know

Paper thin

But strong like silk

So when the world gets heavy as she tends to do

I just lift her