There are no pictures of us.
Hushed meetings,
rushed moments fleeting,
our kisses stolen, quickly so as not to be
seen. There can be no souvenirs he says.
I think of tourists,
who captured us,
by mistake- and
I wonder if they kept them
A faint blur, an embrace, just.. something.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
There are no pictures of us.
Hushed meetings,
rushed moments fleeting,
our kisses stolen, quickly so as not to be
seen. There can be no souvenirs he says.
I think of tourists,
who captured us,
by mistake- and
I wonder if they kept them
A faint blur, an embrace, just.. something.
Request permission to use this poem