December 2011
3 posts
3 tags
Fingertips
One night your fingertips brushed my arm and the next you were gone.
I walked these grey streets with blurry eyes, searching for those hands.
Hands that were settled on her golden hair and so far from mine.
One night you brushed your soft fingertips down the arch of my back. They told me how beautiful I was.
I knew that you would be gone but still I walked, I ran, down dingy streets...
Quits
I don’t want to
Play this game anymore.
Eyes
God.
Blue eyes.
How do you even begin to write about those blue eyes?
She runs.
Runs with a skip in her step.
How do you even begin to think about ever slowing down?
She spins.
Spins in her dreams and when she wakes up.
Why do we always have to wake up?