The paper-thin skin
Around her heart;
Pierced by sweet tender
Kisses and roving finger-tips.
Dancing in the margins
Between agony and comfort,
So narrow be they,
Balancing Anubis' scale
Without a feather to weigh
My mounting sins; easier.
Never knowing which way
Her heart may tilt.
It seems I only cause her to ache.
I wish these hands, could
Mend all the tears in your life.
But they belong to
A broken, bumbling idiot,
With pain and scars of his own
Filling up the joints.
The articulation necessary
For the tenderness required here,
Lost to time and repetition.
I love you.
But I don't know
How to heal you.
I love you.
But I don't know
If the cracks can be fixed.
Cover it up in ruddy colored
Pulp and wait for it to cure.
Painted veins in hues
Of reds and blues.
Facia over the fractures,
Appearing whole,
But brittle beneath
The weight of passion,
And kisses.
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...
