Tattoo's

It's a crisp fall night
I can hear the whispers of people we forgot
your headed is tilted forward
your catching their songs in your hair

you closed your ears to their whispers
but their melodic voices dance across the strands of gold perfection
kissing you on the forehead like a long lost lover

We are hovering just above ground
Our finger tips graze
but never catch the remnants of what we wish was forgotten

Our pain is an orchestra
playing loud and clear
making our nerves vibrate
with a feeling not known to us in years

you bury under the blanket of deceit
It reeks of smoke
stale cigarettes
and covers our skin

Our very own tattoo's.





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