I'm stupid. I know nothing. I know nothing about you. I don't know how you like things. Like how you prefer conversations or your sleep to be. Like what your favorite number or color is. Like what books you read at night, or the music that brings you to sleep. I don't know what your dreams are. Not even the feeling of your palms against mine. I don't know how your fingers move. Not even the way your eyes close to the sound of your soul. I don't know the things that make you smile or laugh. I don't know where you prefer to spend the weekend, and how you like to plan it out the night before. I don't know your eyes. I don't know your lies. And I don't think I'll ever get the chance to change that. And yet here I am hoping not knowing would be better than your rejection.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
