This is the same skin I wore last night.
I have not showered.
I have not changed my clothes.
My skin is old, and growing older,
Growing paper-thin and losing might
With every hour.
My circulation slows.
Residues of Then grow colder,
Seep into my skin, sink out of sight.
They wax in power:
When I neglect my skin, they grow
And join into a chilling parasite.
What the heck?
I never did get your poetry. So glad we broke up. I get my fiance's poetry, esp. when he writes me love poems.
Posted by: Krista at April 28, 2005 03:05 PM