This porcelain face brings light to my heart.
The hands clutch a team of paper.
Thick and free of binds.
A finger.
A second and a third.
I may only laugh while my teeth crumble.
It is your secret though.
Something to hold.
Tangible, tactile.
Like blood let knuckles over rustling steel.
I was told to be softer.
Yet you seem filled.
No more empty nights finding happiness.
It is gone.
And that seems best for all.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
This porcelain face brings light to my heart.
The hands clutch a team of paper.
Thick and free of binds.
A finger.
A second and a third.
I may only laugh while my teeth crumble.
It is your secret though.
Something to hold.
Tangible, tactile.
Like blood let knuckles over rustling steel.
I was told to be softer.
Yet you seem filled.
No more empty nights finding happiness.
It is gone.
And that seems best for all.
Tragedy
