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rosaline-morayPoems
In my fingerprint, the thirteenth groove from the nail, The one that curves neatly, until it breaks (A scar, I think) That's you. There is a braincell in my skull that is red, not grey: Red for love; red for anger; red for that STOP light that made me stall (The kind of complete stop that scrambles up your nerves) That's you. Every eighteenth heartbeat is you. Every flex of my left hand little finger is you. Every wish on a lost eyelash, carried away by salty currents, is you. Every swiftly sheared blade of grass is you. Every nerve ending in my lower lip is you. Every cell of oxygen is you. You are Every Hope Every Fear Every Dream I ever had. Put simply into words that in the end, are nothing; You are everything to me.
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Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
This Is You
In my fingerprint, the thirteenth groove from the nail, The one that curves neatly, until it breaks (A scar, I think) That's you. There is a braincell in my skull that is red, not grey: Red for love; red for anger; red for that STOP light that made me stall (The kind of complete stop that scrambles up your nerves) That's you. Every eighteenth heartbeat is you. Every flex of my left hand little finger is you. Every wish on a lost eyelash, carried away by salty currents, is you. Every swiftly sheared blade of grass is you. Every nerve ending in my lower lip is you. Every cell of oxygen is you. You are Every Hope Every Fear Every Dream I ever had. Put simply into words that in the end, are nothing; You are everything to me.
rosaline-moray
Written by
rosaline-moray
Scottish
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
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