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c May 2020
The way you didn’t kiss me
at the top of the Ferris Wheel.

The way you kissed me
at the bottom of my sense of self.

The way I had your fingerprints on my thighs for 2 weeks after you left me.

The way I want you
to leave me wanting again.
For R
Alexis Oct 2019
all these poems I write
start with I,
I swear I’m not self centered
but they say write what you know.
So in a desperate attempt
to learn this soul of mine
All I write about
is me.
And you,
Yes, I write about you.
I write about the beauty of you.
Of how I would love to leave fingerprints on your heart and caress your soul .
I mean if you would allow me
To love you
Luna Maria Jun 2019
I don't want
to wash your
I don't want the memories to fade.
Florence Jun 2019
Do I spin on this wheel of fortune forever? Offering slices of my heart like a bake sale. Or should I look at you with glass eyes? The world is full of dormant men who love the emptiness of women.  A vacant place behind her eyes that says I’m no longer here. I had to pack and retreat long ago because I’m too scared. I’m scared of you. I’m scared your hands are too rough to reach into my chest. Your hands are fickle. No fingerprints. I’d say I miss you but a man without fingerprints can’t leave a mark.
You left fingerprints
In my heart.
A poem every day.
Finally, at last.
I thought you'd never leave my mind.
But today, for the first time in 142 days.
I didn't woke up,
Thinking about you.
Surprisingly, I never thought this was love.
Just a stupid remedy,
For a self broken heart.
But dispite the fact I'm not thinking about you.
You still left your fingerprints on my skin.
And your voice in my ears.

< >
I'm writing a small poem every day, about how I feel or the world around me. This is #4
i scrub and i scrub and i scrub
but nothing can erase the fingerprints you have left on me
because they are imprinted in my memories
and i can still picture where your fingers have been
rgz Feb 2019
Like a fistful of sand
Leaky and incomplete
Something I can't grasp
Like talking in my sleep

Of dreams in daylight
Of things that never were
Like reflected starlight
Music gone unheard

Of cold nights and warm lips
Of skeletons and their prayers
From buried paths they slip
Abandoning their lairs

Like a stream in the night
It's darkest depths concealed
Like snow's last flight
Melts as it's revealed
Someone said to me today (I forget who he was quoting) that it's the things we don't remember that define us
I find this to be a somewhat unfortunate truth
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