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Feb 2019
Sometimes, I draw on your skin.
I put myself,
quietly,
onto your palm
in the form of curled letters
and sharp patterns.
Perhaps you think nothing of it,
a simple annoyance when you
try to brush your hair from your eyes and remember
that I am hunched over you,
lost in the shallow rivers that are the creases
running across your hands.
But I hope it means more.
I imagine you feel the pen,
moving with care,
gently tickling you
I picture you enjoying the warmth
from my other hand holding my canvas steady
or that you inspect each line,
reading to much into every error
that I felt too guilty for making.
But when the next day,
your palm is clean
every drop of ink scrubbed off with purpose
I stop romanticizing.
You have erased me.
Written by
Mia  15/F
(15/F)   
218
       ---, POSSIBLE, --- and sage
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