That'sNotLove
Learn more about other poetry terms
I always admired the way our hands communicated.
I loved feeling your middle finger graze over mine.
Part One
My thoughts are a corpse, buried beneath the surface in a sickening coldness.
Looking at your face sends shivers, like spiders, crawling down my skin.
It is spewed about
like chilled rain and false meanings.
Spittle and drool of
the ever wanting drench us
in their sickness and
gives us cold noses and a
sore throat from their ills.
