I think we would have been happy
in a life without miracles. Slow blooms
never interested me much. The flowers
show their colors, darken to shades
of blood. He never asked if I wanted to live
without being touched, without the slow
twinge of regret in the morning. The sun
falls on a curve of my breast. I know
what it means to want. It whispers to me
from the folds of my knuckles. I miss
everything I’ve ever missed.
No comments:
Post a Comment