In the corner plays a record,
a worn relic from your grandmother,
a shy invitation into your childhood;
I drink in its rarity with the morning coffee;
secretly, I never enjoyed its bitterness,
but I savor the memory of hands
wrapped around it,
of your fingers covering mine,
guiding me towards warmth.
And then, we dance.
Stepping on toes,
forgetting who leads,
forgetting to breathe.
It doesn't matter, not really.
We are still seventeen, and
mistakes are still granted mercy.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoesíaThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
