Writing What Is Me

Herculean Hand

Here I am again staring at the open space. The hinges have not squeaked open to let me know of your presence. Though I sense you towering over me. The feeling of those hands as strong as dust in the wind upon my body teasing me into submission. I drift away as timbre tones lull me into a false sense of understanding. Then. Again. Love blends my perception of trust and pain is the threshold I no longer can bare. Those nights of flashing lights and poison kisses. Bass thumping to the beats of our hearts;smoke blankets us as we undress with the glass hitting the floor. Red runs the length of your porcelain arms intertwining the caress of my almond fragile hand. Passion binds us longer than we ever expected. Here I am again playing detective. Searching for you in the dark space finding the hinges squealing. I reach for you finding nothing but my exposed heart laying bare upon your Herculean hand, pressing me into the infinite darkness that has become the depths of my soul.


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