And I often think about
how well my hand would fit in yours
No, this isn't some poetic device or try-hard metaphor, so deeply disconnected it's lost in translation.
This is my 1 a.m. thought
As I lay in my bed, the sheets I've laid upon since before I could remember,
since I was a young girl dreaming of fields of daisies and sand castles on the beach,
on the same bed and sheets that now soak up these ocean tears that drop from these hazel eyes upon them as I slowly stretch my left hand across my chest and tenderly lace it with my right,
imagining that it is yours.
the sheets I now lay upon as I dream of you.
These are my 1 a.m. thoughts.
These are not metaphors lost in translation.
But if you ever needed assistance in translating these words from my lovesick mind,
Let me show you how these words fit between your lips and mine.
I'll be careful to whisper them so softly you'll be the only one who hears
because
you've always been the one who was able to silence my fears.
