My senses remember it
better than my
memory
and maybe it's the memory
of you that's lead me back
to this place. Where my skin
shakes like small coils of wire
shot with electricity
but it's a nervous,
nerve reflex and not proof
that I'm alive
my limbs hanging like
the branches of a
tree
a cool breeze
shuddering the
roots
I always felt new with
winter. Ice beneath
my feet. Itchy woollen
jumpers and the smell
of cinnamon
but you stole my seasons
the way you stole my
heart and now a cold
breeze sends me into
darkness
***** footprints on
dead ground. Black
coats and boots
and the smell of your
body, missing, and
the sound of my neck,
caressed by a white scarf,
breaking
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
My senses remember it
better than my
memory
and maybe it's the memory
of you that's lead me back
to this place. Where my skin
shakes like small coils of wire
shot with electricity
but it's a nervous,
nerve reflex and not proof
that I'm alive
my limbs hanging like
the branches of a
tree
a cool breeze
shuddering the
roots
I always felt new with
winter. Ice beneath
my feet. Itchy woollen
jumpers and the smell
of cinnamon
but you stole my seasons
the way you stole my
heart and now a cold
breeze sends me into
darkness
***** footprints on
dead ground. Black
coats and boots
and the smell of your
body, missing, and
the sound of my neck,
caressed by a white scarf,
breaking
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