It's not the way he touched me
But the way he won me
Yes we did engage in an activity
But it was nothing new, nothing different
Oh but he touched me
Tonight he touched my soul
He took my breath and took my fears
Tonight he made me feel alive, superhuman.
He read me like his finest book,
with his deceptive look
A song played that I cannot nearly come to explain.
It made me think, he made me feel.
Just something, someone that was so surreal
His knowledge seeped through me, in hope he'd finally see to me.
He looked at me
He caressed me
He told me beautiful lies
He pretended to care
Although he doesn't
But what am I to say
I'm his play toy
And he is mine
Yet I am starting to feel
I am beginning to grow attached to him
I would not date him although
Him and I are too different
I'm too sweet, meant to settle
He's too mean, yet so intellectual
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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