11th
Your fingers dripped with dark berry juice
Down your hand, leaving a trail to the crease of your arm
It looked like black ink on paper-
I reached out to touch it, but changed my mind
“Twenty times already,” you said;
“Never getting ‘em back.”
And this was a purposeful statement
Punctuated with a purposeful slurp from your glass
There was nothing for me to say
The berry juice would stain your jeans and white shirt
But apparently this wasn’t a concern
Compared to whatever thorn you worried at
In your side;
So I listened, and thought about the smell of lead
And new paper in an office store
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment