Mondays

April 18, 2011

Whispering in the dark, the white sheets, his body warm but skin cool to the touch. An insolent rain flung against the window.

In the morning the sorrow drawn out, his hand, over my heart.

If he could just put me in his pocket and carry me around. If I could just stop keeping it together, let the fibers pull apart and fit in the space in between, feel only that, only him, he whose hand over my heart, drawing it out of me.

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