Like Silly Dancers Poem by Eli MorenoDrew
Like Silly Dancers
It bugs me
When you apologize
For the scars on my hands.
Next to you, they are
The most real things I possess.
Splinters and cuts,
Calluses, fingerprints
Anything they want to touch
All aren’t real.
This bed,
Though,
With Mazzy Star playing
And hyperbolic temperatures
Is what is real.
If we could be this bed for
Twenty
No
Fifty
Sixty
Years
Imagine how happy we could be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 2:25:25 AM # 1.0.0.1119
