November 19, 2016
I watched him play the guitar. I watched the way he plucked the strings and how he would look at me as if he was bragging about his amazingness.
I would smile and admire him, as he played. It was all I could do.
I watched his wounded fingers play despite the pain. He loved playing so much, that he didn't mind the deep marks on his fingertips.
I wanted to hold his hands.
I fell in love with how they were wrinkled and stressed from playing.
At some point, I just wanted him to stop, so I could hold his hand.
He was right in front of me, yet I could never satisfy myself with short-lived-moments.
We're both not ready, I don't want him to be guilty of hurting me. I don't want to take the risk, since I know that he's not willing to catch me.
I don't want that.
YOU ARE READING
Mindless
PoetryIn here lies pieces of Katherine's mind. What it felt like to love someone and what it felt to be left behind. She is a wanderer, one who writes poems about her adventures. This is her most prized possession, the Mindless days of her wandering hear...
