I've become a stranger to letting my wrists do the talking.
Words like drool from the corner of my lips,
and feelings of insignificance since I've been gone.
Though I feel more refined, there are wounds that are bleeding out,
and I'm still tending to the ruptures, while pinching off your thought.
The calming touch, withered and pale if I tried to describe it.
Cold, uninspired, as we run from it.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
I've become a stranger to letting my wrists do the talking.
Words like drool from the corner of my lips,
and feelings of insignificance since I've been gone.
Though I feel more refined, there are wounds that are bleeding out,
and I'm still tending to the ruptures, while pinching off your thought.
The calming touch, withered and pale if I tried to describe it.
Cold, uninspired, as we run from it.
