A little bit of me is born in
every page I turn, and a little bit
dies in the empty place
between two words.
When I was a child, I could
hold time between two fingers
Now I know that an universe
lives in each of us. The greatest tragedy
of the world is perhaps that we will never
understand one another fully,
meanings slip from between
the fingertips, but what
does it matter when you can touch
the greatest joy of all, the miracle
of being alive.
I have never been touched
by love, though I have sold
my heart in dark alleys and
city streets. I have counted
the marks men left on my skin,
I have been inside and outside of
my body and salvaged all its sins,
but my fingers still grasp on
empty air.
A little bit of me dies with
every tick of the clock
but know I will live forever
secretly, in all the women
who have written poems for me.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
