You always complained to me
How I never held your hand tight enough.
My mother once told me,
That like the warm sand
On the summer beach,
The harder you hold onto something,
The faster it slips from your fist.
And maybe that’s why
When your hand
was in mine
I would never close my fingers.
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 4:02 AM UTC
You always complained to me
How I never held your hand tight enough.
My mother once told me,
That like the warm sand
On the summer beach,
The harder you hold onto something,
The faster it slips from your fist.
And maybe that’s why
When your hand
was in mine
I would never close my fingers.
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