Monday, March 14, 2011

Wishes are not horses.

Some nights all I have got is your outline. I trace your eyes, your cheeks but my fingers refuse to move past your lips. Have I ever told you how much my fingers love to glide through your hair? How I feel like pushing those layers over your forehead aside? And then to kiss on your empty forehead?

The touch of those silken textures feels like a much-loved dream.

If only photographs could reciprocate.