May 27, 2015
“And I promised that I wouldn’t write And I promised it won’t be about you. But if I did And if it was, I would tell you That the spaces between my fingers have built up dust from the last time you held them. Or that my soul is a museum Everyone’s looking but no one is brave enough to touch. And my mind is still somewhere out there wandering after you. I would tell you that my body is a cemetery waiting, Hoping that one day you return and lay yourself to rest in me. But this is not poetry And this is not about you.”-SabrinaA
