Phantom Hands
We
are the lonely remnants
of scattered dreams.
The phantom hands
rubbing forgotten backs
and the flashes
of eyes through the night.
Smiling or laughing
red with tears
hanging from the lids.
Too heavy to stay
too scared to jump.
We
are the missing pieces
of broken pictures.
There is not enough air
and I’ve not enough lungs
to hold the sigh
that relieves.
The absent fingers
tracing invisible lines
around swollen
eyes
and stained cheeks.
We
are the staccato images
of lives not lived.
Swimming through our sleep
like broken slideshows
and skipping
records.
The tired glances across
empty rooms
the shared breaths
through the
choking silence.
We
are the stolen hope
of diverging paths.
The hair tangled
in the hands
the slow closing
of soaked eyes
and the burying
of our faces.
The distance between
our bodies as
it grows wider.
*an old one I found in my old email box*
