I often question why I let your poisonous fingers touch my fragile skin;

it still burns with every waking memory of you, reminding me of the way you caressed my lips as if you gave a damn.

Dark room and shadowed kisses are all we were, and all we ever will be;

we’ll never be more than a tear-stained post-card letting everyone know I was just a visit on your journey around the world,

a small island, flooded by the shore of your aching palms pressed against my sandy skin in an effort to find comfort and love in the wrong place.

I’m not a place you can visit!
You are banned from this body and my heart forever.

Because you took me on for about a month and then left with your suitcase in hand, rode off in your beautiful car,
and left me stranded on the top of a tall palm tree where I had to learn to get down by myself with only my conscience to guide me.

Don’t you dare tell me you ‘didn’t know what you were doing?’
You did.

You lingered momentarily after every time we hugged as if it was going to be our last.

Thank you for the trip, but I’m not taking any more tourists.