My hands don't play intricate games with strings of words anymore.
My voice doesn't hum lullabies of thorn birds for you.
My fingers never intertwined with those fingers of yours.
Rhythms didn't inebriate my feet for you.
Maybe all that was written for me were those stolen glances.
YOU ARE READING
Debris Of My Existence
PoetryThe memories and experience of my life collided and bombarded itself as a bomb explosion. And now there only exists the debris of my existence.
