you trample me with your soft fingers;
clay in your palms – i am clay in your hands...
I keep waking up from a dream
where we swallow memories whole...
hold me in the palms of your hands
and shred me apart as if it were the first...
it clings to your skin,
woven through the wool...
When poets need a helping hand,
you’ll see that Mister Darcy stands...
I long for you to be with me
like dew on grass at morning free...
Why just in opposite can we unite
and tie...
On nights like this it's not that
I can't sleep...
All I know is that
light is merely a bunch of photons...
you probably don't remember
the confession I made...
is the silence damning or was it the lack of...
in the garden? it made me think too much of you...
It’s the end of this blink, breath
second...