She smiles sickly sweet,
Holds my hand and brushes my cheek-
As if none of it made a difference.
As if my stomach didn't drop
Every time she looked at me
With that mellowed hippie-eyed stare.
As if her soft and gentle words
Floating in the air
Does mingle with her smell of
Lavender and vintage clothing shops,
And old wood
And her-
Her soothing touch,
Uneven stumbling fingers alighting my skin-
As if I didn't just shiver,
When she wrapped her arms around me.
Or when she turned her back
When we slept in the same bed.
As if I didn't love her more than as a friend.
How is that possible?
Even when our bodies collide
And our chests press together,
She keeps our hearts
At an arm's length away,
As if I could never be the one
To hold her that way.
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Tea
PoesiaLife is but a barren desert without experiences. Experience shaped (and continues to shape) the topography of our Earth. Experience shaped (and continues to shape) me and you. Without them we are but barren wastelands.
