Your ghost hands
still haunt my
wrists so I write
of phantoms
I’ll never kiss.
And I dream of
you at night
You promise
never to leave
But I wake up to
just an echo of a
dying memory.
We’re a cycle
you and I
you leave, I cry
You hurt,
and well I write.
Sandoval
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
