He touches me like I’m magic,
as if I might disappear
from beneath his fingers,
and I wonder if he really sees me
or just his idea of me
because I’m not
magic and beauty and desire.

I am as broken as he is.

I can see my shards
floating in between his,
and I wonder how shattered
can be so fucking exquisite,
so insanely perfect,

and all I want is to feel
his lips pressed against
every inch of my body,
and all he wants to do is hide
because we are just
a come and go
not a stay and sweet.

We are rigid pieces
looking for something
beyond imitation,
beneath fake,
and we know we are not that.

We are young and old all at once,
fixed and fishing and empty
in these shells we call skin.

I need him,
his body,
his hands,

the lips that eat my flesh like it’s candy,
but I know the pain will follow,
the vacancy will rise,
and I will be alone



7 thoughts on “Alone

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