Spoken Word Poetry

Wrinkled Palms

Tracing the lines of your
wrinkled palms
Remembering the figure
of your pretty face,
My fondness for your lips,
Still linger.

"Please open those eyes,"
I beg in whispers
Replied with tranquility
Alive yet I feel near death doors
Continuously asking,
Without your loving
Where can be finally reborn,
Where no solitude can be found.

Tracing the lines of your
wrinkled palms,
Feeling the beat of your heart
and breathing,
With every glance,
Every piece of me is shaking.

For long ago, I had only loved
—Only you,
Have only breathed,
the scent of your sweetened
touch, and this one last traced
of your wrinkled palms,
Will stay at days as lonely nights.