sunday morningsunday morning, six o' clock
i'm chasing broken dreams.
but their long white fingers always seem to slip away.
into the quicksand of reality.
the sun has not yet gone up,
and my shadows are already dancing with me here in the darkness.
i've never felt this real before,
it's the little things that count.
the small hairs in the back of my neck,
moving in the rythm of your breathing.
your eyes leaking green all over my pillow,
some colour in this black and white world of mine.
that scent of safety all over my room,
no more saturday feet on the cold sunday floor.
Poetry by crushoftheyear
Read 672 times
Written on 2006-02-16 at 22:34
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)