life, love, poetry, Uncategorized

The Lives of Uncaring Hands

Sometimes I slip my hand over my breast, and hold it in place.

I look up to the sky and close my eyes and wait for the blood to flow in… and perhaps, perhaps, change my ways.

The ways I can hear music flow into my ears, and my skin, and then dream of all the fears.

I can wait

This I know

But for one, two, three, six years

Is death

Then I go.

My ocean love, I love the way your uncaring hands have lived too much.

Like your fingers over strings, I have to slip away from the comfort of our love crutch.

So sometimes I slip my cold hand over my breast, and once again begin to wait

For something

That I will always believe

Is meant to be

Because we

Feel free.

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