300 Count

I am thinking long on feeling
And the feel of philosophies
Between 300 count thread.
Melodies elongate in that slow stretch
Strong, steep, brewed to blow.

Solitude swindles nothing
From the opened eyes of passersby
On occasions, rare, the drift brings interest
Stoking fires that burn low, long, steady;
The smoulder of one, widening.

Who is it that goes there,
Traipsing the distance, gingerly?
With the unrequited wish for answers
But, less answers, less advice: instead,
A knock on the door of 'You'

Come, sit a while, away from the awkwardness
Let us motivate the hours to mean something
Dialectical foreplay is rare these days
Introduce the atelier of the hidden
And freely speak of why the skin sighs

That prologue of what we are up to
Stews thick and potent flavors
You can smell the movement of all I rub in
As I imagine that middle finger of yours-
Buried deep in the heart of the Winter.