10.14.15

And you always hold my wrist,

 

fragilely, as if it’s broken,

 

gingerly connecting two skin tones,

 

both marked with spider webs,

 

one pale like bones,

 

carefully weighing every interaction,

 

scanning details, as if I’ll dissipate,

 

transform into a pellucid phantom,

 

to perplex your glass-shielded eyes.

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10.14.15

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