Tuesday, October 28, 2008
I smell my hands for strength against what I feel for you. The wrist and smooth forearm, mine-yet theirs for now, I know. The wind from the fan dries my eyes and tells me where your lashes fall to pillows with cases unwashed for months and to a bed sunken in on one side, your side, the side you sleep on, curled up in a ball curved behind none.
Posted by Beth at 9:20 PM