Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I promise to kiss your forehead
To drive away all thoughts of self-doubt
And the weight of the depression
Hanging round your neck like lead
Pulling your eyes toward the ground
I promise to kiss your hands
To make them strong
For I know that you think them to be weak
But Oh what strength lies asleep in your fingertips
I will kiss them awake
And make you see the marvelous things
That lie at the edges of your reach
And I promise to kiss your lips
As if we were drowning
Maybe we are
For I have lost the taste of air
And replaced it with your presence
And I have yet to decide which is more essential
To my survival
For though my lungs burn
I seem to believe it is from not being able to consume
Enough of you
To sustain my love
I promise to devote myself to you
For though my covenants may seem
Somewhat self-deprecating
Making me a martyr to my desire
Rather as you can see
These promises are rather selfish
For I cannot foresee
A future in which you are in any way separate from me.
They say, your palms tell stories
With flesh as pages and indentions as the vocabulary
Yet I wonder where I lie in the palm of your hand
Am I that scar you got when you were six
Trying to cut your handprint out of colorful pages
Or that callous you have from caring for your garden
And always holding onto things, and people, far too tight
Now that I think of it your hand is a reflection of who you are
I love how it tells a story with every line
How it speaks of your beauty with every imperfection
But most importantly, I love how it fits perfectly into mine.
Next page