You are this thing I hold.
On my lips, warm against my chest
Under the sun.
You can be lost.
Or stolen by a kiss.
You are the breath in my lungs.
Sometimes holding you too long,
Is all I can do,
To keep from thinking.
Bout breathing in
through the barrel
Of a gun.
You are this thing I wear.
Worn out, and ripped to pieces
From tatter and tear.
You can be broke.
Or stolen by a kiss.
You are the heart in my chest.
Sometimes wearing you,
Upon my sleeve is what I need,
To staunch the bleed.
From poison
soaking in, and
slowing every beat.
You are this thing I am.
Part reserved, part undone
Embodied by a token.
You can be lost or broken.
Sold for a kiss.
You are my very soul.
Sometimes doubting you,
Is the only way,
To remain feeling whole.
Taken apart
Piece, by piece
By Mare iniquity.
You are this thing.
Hiding in the corners, waiting;
Patiently shaping.
You can be damned.
Or saved by a kiss.
You are the future me.
Sometimes losing self,
Is all it really takes,
To see who you should be.
Promises made
by our past,
That we must ensue.
YOU ARE READING
Blank Spaces
PoetryAn emotive journey through the empty places we visit but never want to see. The pain, the heartbreak, trying to see hope in places there may be none. And the secrets, and yes there are always secrets. Can you see them in this dark empty space? So it...
