He comes.
Always comes.
Without thought.
Without retreat.
Without hesitation.
He brings in his hands
a touch so soft
it almost convinces me
that it’s love.
But then...
with the same gesture,
he crushes what’s left of me.
Trampling the shards of my soul
as if they didn’t hurt.
As if they had never been his.
YOU ARE READING
illusions
Poetry"This is where I write down my thoughts and ideas about various topics that pique people's curiosity."
