ridges turn to rivers
my wrist is worn but the ink runs dry;
drier still the canvas.
if we holds hands
would you feel my deep calluses -
etched by fingers of a different touch?
would you rejoin the veins that have been broken
by festered scars
from fingers of a different touch?
a painful one
because time knows more than the heart does
but the heart is louder than any tick
or tock -
it screams;
the clock merely whispers
in vague,
uneven
breaths.
if our lips should touch
will your passion be enough
to silence the icebergs that remain
from the lips of a different touch?
if our eyes should meet
will the brilliance spill and reach my soul?
will the spark ignite the flints that have been dampened by a river of tears?
if i should give my heart
will your love rain down and wash his filth?
the filth that once were sparkling diamonds
the filth i still hold dear.
but how could i even give my heart
when all that’s left are memories
of a different touch
of a different kiss
from a different time
his.
