I'm twisting around my fingers
like a beadless rosery.
Which is ironic,
because it seems I don't have a prayer.
It's an accusation I haven't made yet.
Something that eats away,
necrotizing the part of my brain
that has hope in our future.
I'm wearing spots into the base of my nails.
It's a sweet sting on either hand...
I can sigh.
Note the match of silver on my fingers,
and remember you want to be with her.
0 comments:
Post a Comment