Sometimes I find more comfort in fictional characters than in real people.
[I have a habit of typing a few verses on my phone when I’m commuting. I forgot all about this, thought I’d share it. ]
The strong desire is this–
to draw every inch of your hands
to capture the knobs and lines,
the calluses that make them yours.
And inside those ink drawn lines
i’d fill them with the fleshy tone
of your skin, with darker shades
in between each finger
until they come to life in paper.
So I may cut them out
and let perfectly drawn hands
intertwine with mine
in the absence of yours
in the absence of life.
Yet, i draw nothing for
in the dark, the emptiness
is thick like heavy
curtains over spent eyes.