LOVE IS AN HOURGLASS
time is what you wish for but do
not treasure when it is placed into
the palm of your hands.
flowing, steady,
you breathe
haggardly
. .
. .
. .
. .
. .
. .
hold still,
do not move
a single muscle until all of the
sand has settled and you do not
let a single grain fall through the gaps
of your slender, shivering, still fingers.
YOU ARE READING
The Skin On Our Bones
Poetry"i have a feeling this might be a big mistake, or maybe, if we're lucky- something star-crossed." a small collection of poems written by a silly girl.
