We don’t touch that often now.
I always plan to leave my clothes on but you soon lose interest in the lines of my face;
my eyes; my palms.
I want to write you a novel on the sound of your laughter.
The touch of your breath against my neck when you are sleeping and I try to ****** the night into staying-
tomorrow we become silent and sinister again.
I am sorry because I make myself ashamed when I should be causing a scene.
I am worse for those hours spent silent in your sheets the way the night is worse for the moon; it’s so much clearer now.
I am worse for the scars on my hands.
I am worse, I am worse.
I am worse.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
We don’t touch that often now.
I always plan to leave my clothes on but you soon lose interest in the lines of my face;
my eyes; my palms.
I want to write you a novel on the sound of your laughter.
The touch of your breath against my neck when you are sleeping and I try to ****** the night into staying-
tomorrow we become silent and sinister again.
I am sorry because I make myself ashamed when I should be causing a scene.
I am worse for those hours spent silent in your sheets the way the night is worse for the moon; it’s so much clearer now.
I am worse for the scars on my hands.
I am worse, I am worse.
I am worse.
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