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loewen-s-gravesPoems
There is a delicacy to her hand falling onto his thigh, pale edges curving onto the denim, shining there clear as glass Her tongue sheltered against her cheek, painting clouds onto the roof of her mouth, she's breathing in the thickest fog Their fingertips in the dust, etched onto the windowsill -- someday they'll be blown away, curious children or anxious mother clearing away the dirt of their past Her dreams poured softly into a Mason jar, his ideas sifted coolly through a strainer, their ghosts pass through the kitchen faint as shadows The bones of her hips bowl like cradles, carrying the grief of impermanence, sheltering the hope that someone will remember the days that have passed Dots of paint staining the carpet will preserve her breath, folding out into the fog
0
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
like dust.
There is a delicacy to her hand falling onto his thigh, pale edges curving onto the denim, shining there clear as glass Her tongue sheltered against her cheek, painting clouds onto the roof of her mouth, she's breathing in the thickest fog Their fingertips in the dust, etched onto the windowsill -- someday they'll be blown away, curious children or anxious mother clearing away the dirt of their past Her dreams poured softly into a Mason jar, his ideas sifted coolly through a strainer, their ghosts pass through the kitchen faint as shadows The bones of her hips bowl like cradles, carrying the grief of impermanence, sheltering the hope that someone will remember the days that have passed Dots of paint staining the carpet will preserve her breath, folding out into the fog
loewen-s-graves
Written by
loewen-s-graves
American
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
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