too often when you touch things, you bruise them.

you were unconscious, lying helplessly in the dark room
your red hair, almost in a faded color,
your closed eyes and plumbed lips
were nothing more than a blur
the only thing I could perfectly see
was your hand
pale and numb, hanging from the surface.
so I reached out, trying to touch your
fingertips.
it didn’t end well. I couldn’t grab your
hand in the first try
so I tried again.
this time my skin touched yours
and the last thing I remembered
were your fingers
strongly intertwined with
mine.

And she said,
"You'll get over it,"
when I told her
I'd be sad
if she took her own life.

Well, here I am.
Another year older

and I'm not over it.

Lucky are those who have found love
and been loved.

Lucky are those who bear the gift of face.
   Easy is for them to find an easy case
            for their own taste
     - a goal for their own base.

Lucky are those who has an outstanding confidence.
For by it, they don’t live with a doubtful fence.
Freely as they get any wants in their existence.

I give away smiles, pieces of my lies,
        pretending not having rainy skies.
Hiding my Breathless sighs.

Sometimes I am like a rock
   too dull to feel, a surface too rough.
A sense I lost, an unreachable core,
I don’t know how to love anymore.



*© 2014 Pax