Diana:

Your hands used to sweep through my hair like the fine bristles of a paint brush. Every morning was the same. I'd wake up to you moving the hair from my face. Kissing my lips softly -- telling me your deepest secrets this way. I lost count. Of the times you did this, of its importance, of you. I got lost on the way to grandmother's house. I lost my destination. Then I lost you. I think of you when I ride the train and I see girl with giant eyes and an awkward smile.

Tell me something. Anything.

T. 
¶ 1:11 AM |