He held my hand today in the most delicate way,
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
He held my hand today in the most delicate way,
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd