the trypophobia of forgetting you

the trypophobia of forgetting you

she is the blood in my fingertips
when i dance,
a pulsing presumption that once
these tumid extremities grazed
over every inch of her skin.

when i move in space –
the air against my palm, the memory
of her colourless hair pushing my fingers back gently,
i wish they might remember the way
her eyes leaked the past
into   s  p  a  c  e     s                  b    et  we  e  n,

sometimes i               pretend            that i never
did let them slip past my grasp,
sometimes my swollen fingers
(the state of my self-centred mind)
wish that she might pour pain from half-
closed wounds again,
sometimes i wish the blood in my fingertips
would cease its strive to leave my flesh,
would like to stay as much as i need it to.

but tonight, i prick a million tiny holes in my fingers.
eyes shriek of trypophobia; nostalgia drains itself.

Advertisements

please say something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s