Caressing on my hand,
soft, warm, leather-like;
thoughts of meadows and brooks
paint a landscape of sensations
on my skin.
Time, a round room with
a blowing breeze,
alone.
Pages turn creating wind,
cooling down a self-hate;
not wanted, not needed,
not here.
"Sorry I'm not in my mind right now,
call back later"
changes
"I'm better,
call all you want!"
This entry was posted
on Wednesday, July 19, 2006
at 3:50 PM
and is filed under
Poetry
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