Sometimes, at night, when I wake up with your scent tangled in my hair, I remember the feel of your sandpaper skin, the warmth of your breath on the back of my neck and your sleeping sighs. I roll over the possibility of waking up beside you. I crush the notion of falling asleep in your arms. Oh, not this again. Darling, no.
The sun is rising on the eastern horizon, but I can still see the stars. I can still see the map of your worried features. I can still see your hand on the doorknob. I can still feel the panic rising.
I turn to the wall. This pressure is a birdcage I’ve trapped myself in.
There are records on the walls that no one will hear. Hold tight to the notion that, once, you were loved; that, once, someone listened to your song.
The sun is rising on the eastern horizon, but I can still see the stars. I can still see the map of your worried features. I can still see your hand on the doorknob. I can still feel the panic rising.
I turn to the wall. This pressure is a birdcage I’ve trapped myself in.
There are records on the walls that no one will hear. Hold tight to the notion that, once, you were loved; that, once, someone listened to your song.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home