(no subject)

[lady_gray]

Your hands are for hurting.
You wouldn’t hammer a nail with a gun.
Two oceans isn’t far enough
To stop dreaming of you.
Your hands, bird’s wings
Independently shadow-dancing:
They tell the story of your flight.

At times I do not think I ever loved you in the correct sense.
I could not say I used words like cherish, adore
Because that would imply I had anything but fever and desire
And a terrifying sense of you crumpling under my fingers
Like a tissue paper flower, no;
I loved you in a terrible way - an old and animal way
That knew no sense or decency.
I am well quit of you, but.
In my dreams you linger.

I wish you’d take your ladybirds and leave!
I did not ask to drink you past the pull date.
It is bad taste, a bad joke,
It has no grace. You trembled out from under me
As if my hands hurt you.
My fingers are not quick like yours, nor slender and white
Pinion feathers that you spread in preparation for flight.
My own beat fruitlessly against the image on the screen;
On and on it plays despite my pleas.
Your fingertips smudge out the restfulness of night.