I promise

one day,

your palms will be flush

with mine

and not the puzzle pieces of my


mixed up life:

healing meets masochism.

I promise to walk the streets with you,

fingers entwined,

until we see the sunrise.

I promise,


I’m more than what you’re holding out for.

And someday,

it’ll be me that you’re holding onto.

So keep your hands free,

palms facing the sky,

and if a teardrop tries to escape those eyes,

I will kiss it before it can even grace your hands.

A kiss brushed against your knuckles,

lips chapped

and dry hands:

you are the only thing I love about winter.

Sculpt me into the woman you will love,

but do not try to mortar my cracking marble.


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