her hands…
so soft and how they tremble
partly in anticipation
partly in response to memories best left tucked
under that proverbial rug…
i find myself apologizing
even for the slightest thing
as the right words fight to slip
stumble
and not quite completely fall off my tongue
(i must learn that i cannot fix everything)
she’s fragile…
like the bud that blooms before official spring
and falls victim
(among other things)
to the winter’s last
least devastating frost…
i had a glimpse before the leaves fell
withered to a state of black, bitter remorse
and watched as her eyes lost all color
and good intentions (along with ambitions)
sank alongside a wounded soul…
(she doesn’t remember what it is like to dream)…
and her hands…they’ll always tremble…
(i'll never remember what it is like to dream...) |
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