‘pretty hands’
you have pretty hands, although your fingers doesn’t perfectly fill the spaces between mine and i’ll never let them wipe the tears that leak from my eyes.
your thoughts align with mine, but only when they’re gritty. i don’t hear from you when you’re angry. im emotive, and i don’t think you ever could be.
i remind me you of a soft-spoken, dazed girl with fair hair, who lives in fantasy books and lives comfortably around death. i don’t associate you with fictional characters, in my mind you are your own. an original insignia carved onto my brain, but i know so little of you, and if i could chose to know more i think i’d rather not to, i don’t take risks with disappointment, it comes with harsh reality and the truth, and given my history i’ve been hyper fixated on people who don’t stay. i don’t like to know everything about everyone, i like the unknown, i like muted tones and dew drops on spider webs, you like english bands and lingerie, and more things i don’t learn about and therefore could never say.
you wish for a person to fill the hole in your heart, two ears to listen to your sweet nothings and be wooed with romance, meanwhile i long for someone who could say “id know the marks on your body anywhere,”
i miss your pretty hands, how you kissed my shoulder as i slept, palm brushing against my skin, the cold that seeped into my pores and you lift the blanket to cover us both, sharing beds with a stranger never felt more intimate.
but your existence to me only goes as far as your pretty hands.
