Your calloused hands seem to rip at the seams, and what a shame that is. Because if you had only just taken me, a needle and thread, you would've been able to hold her longer. Do you want to touch and feel her embrace but not feel my warmth?
All that's left is a chilling, hollow body. The cold wind rattles through my bones, and I can't breathe underneath the dirt. I just feel your foot on my grave, your boots pressuring me to stay down and buried. Forced into submission. So that the undead doesn't ruin what's alive and well. So that I can't ruin what you have found. Even if my now numb hands were to touch you, you would get frostbite just to spite me. To prove I can't illicit warmth anymore.
At least, not for you.
And she smiles at you so unknowingly, so ignorant to who you truly are. The webs that hang from your mouth only allow spiders to crawl from the inside out—greedy legs running towards your new fly.
Now, I am nothing more than a forgotten stone protruding out the ground. I am nothing but cold, wet dirt underneath your shoes. But at least I still stick to the bottom of your soles.
I'll follow you until you decide to confess and wash away your sins—starting from sole to mind.
YOU ARE READING
efflorescence
Poetry[efflorescence] the action or process of developing and unfolding as if coming into flower - a collection of wilting thoughts
