I glance at the photographs you so elegantly flip through.
Not as much fixated on the photo than as I am on you.
The way your smooth skin does not leave a print.
No reminder of the finger that has once brushed up against it.
I sit so sillily wondering whether the photos just take it for granted
Do they take for granted your gentle hold?
Do they take for granted your caressing touch?
Do they take them for granted,
your hands as a whole: the ones that are unforgivably enchanted?
YOU ARE READING
Begging In The Abyss
PoesíaIf you would enjoy reading about the abyss of life, love, hope and all else in the form of poetry, well then I think you've found the right place.
