The soft skin.
That silly grin.
Those lips I would kiss.
The taste I miss.
The mental pain.
The emotional strain.
I wanted us to share a heart.
Now there is only one part.
Now my bed is cold.
To her, I got old.
I thought it was meant to be.
Now there is only my bottle and me.
YOU ARE READING
Dear, Samantha
PoetryThis is a book of poetry with no true theme. Some weave a story of guilt while others are simply meant to invoke pleasent feelings or memories
