You're the trembling of my hands
On the steering wheel,
You're the rubble of all I thought
To be real.
You're the empty space between
My fingers,
You're the bedside where the cold
Still lingers.
These hands they itch
To grasp your thighs,
This heart it longs
To bring demise
To the girl who learned
To build strong walls,
The storm that cleared
These hollow stalls.
My hands are
Cookie-cutter shapes,
My hopes are
Silhouettes.
Even though it's not a game,
I'm singing,
"Ready, set..."
YOU ARE READING
Radiant
PoetryGoing on my 4th year of struggling to write poetry, and she comes along. These are poems about Her. A friend of mine told me that since I met her, I radiate; therefore, this book is called "Radiant". Read, vote, comment, or ignore, but do enjoy.
