Hands Lament

By TheGreatMasturbator

An old poem.

Their skin,

the film of a cooled winter's drink,

holds the night

in its tactile paving.



-How often do we

come together?

-When was the last

Time?



-Minutes, hours, days,

Moments?



-We were younger then:

Minutes, hours, days,

Moments

Younger.

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Hands Lament

Created: Jul 16, 2009

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