Her fingers tell me a story,
Of where she's been.
Each layer of skin,
Each particle,
Under each fingernail,
Contains evidence,
That I was there.
Evidence,
That I've felt her hands.
Evidence,
That I've touched her nails,
Evidence,
That I am or was something.
That we are something.
Using this fact,
She should know,
That I know her too well,
To know when she's hiding something.
YOU ARE READING
A Poet's Love Story: A Poet's Collection
PoesíaLife, Does not wait, For you. It stirs your emotions, And reforms them, Into wings of flight, And it tests, Weather or not, You will open the cage, And allow yourself, To give up, Or if you will keep the wings calm, And continue to live, And underst...
