my hand itches
for contact
with her fingers.
they tremble
with sad, false hope
that our
palms will inter-
lock and
stay and capture
the way
my heart feels when
i'm with her.
YOU ARE READING
plastic
Poetrymost wings are made of bones and skin and feathers, but what if mine are made of nothing but rubber and glue?
when i'm with her
my hand itches
for contact
with her fingers.
they tremble
with sad, false hope
that our
palms will inter-
lock and
stay and capture
the way
my heart feels when
i'm with her.
