He took a picture the other day
of our hands clasped together,
him holding on
for what seemed to be dear life,
my bracelets criss crossed carelessly at my wrist
and all you can see of my tattoo
in the beautiful script that he always caressed:
“there’s nothing”.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
He took a picture the other day
of our hands clasped together,
him holding on
for what seemed to be dear life,
my bracelets criss crossed carelessly at my wrist
and all you can see of my tattoo
in the beautiful script that he always caressed:
“there’s nothing”.
Some of these poems are a kind of older.
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