my heart aches when you touch me
and aches when you don't.
nothing changed except everything.
am i the only one who notices you're upset,
Or am i the only one you're upset at?
he was gone before he left
i miss the simpler times
when your hand grazed my thigh.
A quiet, secret reassurance that you cared.
Sometimes, I draw on your skin.
I put myself,
onto your palm
in the form of curled letters
and sharp patterns.
Perhaps you think nothing of it,
a simple annoyance when you
try to brush your hair from your eyes and remember
that I am hunched over you,
lost in the shallow rivers that are the creases
running across your hands.
But I hope it means more.
I imagine you feel the pen,
moving with care,
gently tickling you
I picture you enjoying the warmth
from my other hand holding my canvas steady
or that you inspect each line,
reading to much into every error
that I felt too guilty for making.
But when the next day,
your palm is clean
every drop of ink scrubbed off with purpose
I stop romanticizing.
You have erased me.
i adore cold weather.
But not for the fires,
Or the warmth of another person.
I find something beautiful about it,
And maybe even a bit lonely.
It reminds me of bittersweet loss,
And finding the strength to move on.