by Writer of Sins
I’ve forgotten the way it feels to hold on so tight you break.
I don’t remember the addicting annoyance of long strands of her hair tickling my neck.
I was reminded of the sensation of hot breath against my lips.
I can no longer taste the salt of skin.
There’s a hint of perfume on my bible.
Sand slips through my fingers and I can no longer grasp the things I’ve forgotten.