Saturday, February 20, 2010

thirty-nine thousand, four hundred eleven

when she waits for you
in the dark,
she wraps her arms around herself
fingers pressing into
the concave places between ribs.

she pretends her fingers
are yours,

she curls into herself
when the sun starts to rise.

there is no beauty in it.

1 comment:

YourOasis said...

:( tis sad but very well written.