My mother and I
we are not used to
unnecessary touch.
The night before
I am about to leave
she puts her hand in mine
and I hold her fingers
we lie miles apart on the same bed
and I am crying
and trying not to make a sound,
and she pretends
to be asleep.
It's a small kindness
I am grateful for
my mother and I
that is all we know of love.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Doux
Poesíathe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
