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ailurophile-1Poems
February Three squeezes. My mother told me that Sometimes the words get tired, Sometimes people get worn out, So we can squeeze instead. Three squeezes, and four in return. I love you. Too. You pretended not to understand, Too afraid of permanence. June Your face was just as familiar Even three weeks away. Your warmth my home, Hand in hand and natural. Three squeezes. Four in return. A gravitational pull, A nirvana, A promised land. You were mine to hug so tight I might crack a rib. But that's just how I loved you. The squeezy type of way. September Three squeezes. Silence. A reluctant reply, A command sent from the mind But not the heart. The silent book we had written together No longer lay open on your shelf. My mother told me that Sometimes people get tired, Sometimes people get worn out. She never told me that sometimes People get tired of you.
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Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
Forlorn
February Three squeezes. My mother told me that Sometimes the words get tired, Sometimes people get worn out, So we can squeeze instead. Three squeezes, and four in return. I love you. Too. You pretended not to understand, Too afraid of permanence. June Your face was just as familiar Even three weeks away. Your warmth my home, Hand in hand and natural. Three squeezes. Four in return. A gravitational pull, A nirvana, A promised land. You were mine to hug so tight I might crack a rib. But that's just how I loved you. The squeezy type of way. September Three squeezes. Silence. A reluctant reply, A command sent from the mind But not the heart. The silent book we had written together No longer lay open on your shelf. My mother told me that Sometimes people get tired, Sometimes people get worn out. She never told me that sometimes People get tired of you.
Written by
ailurophile-1
Sierra Leonean
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
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