Sabato. Morning light
streaming through dirty
glass louvers.
Fatigue creeping up my back
and around my sunken eyes.
Life just grinding on when
I just want to be left alone.
By you. With you. Or both.
I do not know.
One thing I do know: It's you I feel everytime I hit the pit
of what I thought was my bottomless soul.
It's you I have for despaireach time I pick up and define
an exquisite shard, a gossamery
shred of me.
It's you I know whenever
I wonder just what I am
really made up of.
It's you I sense. It's you I live. It's you
I cannot ever really have.
No comments:
Post a Comment