We are the thing only stories can tell.
Your eyes
Hiding a suffering
On the inside
My hands
Never reaching
But longing
For your skin
And all
That hides within.
We are the things that songs are made for.
All the words
Swallowed in pain,
But meaning the world
All the dreams
Born with a touch
Over too soon.
I need you,
Please have me,
take me,
Please be the one
To fest on my heart,
Please take me apart.
We are the things novels are made of.
The kisses and tears
Against the horizon.
A secret embrace
Alone in the dark.
Alone again.
Alone with a smile,
With the giggling inside
For all the
Dirty and dark
Painful and true
Things you’ve just said.
Are we a thing to survive?
I haven’t talked to you in years.
Mistress witch writes 