The dampness
of the rainy season
        is soaking into
My bones
And
Into my being

somewhere between these lines

is a place

for a name

I haven't written for

in a while

Wealth
is no measure
of moral health

i had to touch you.
no reason —
just the pull of knowing
twenty-six days
is all we have left.

i plan
to press my memory
into your skin
every day,
so you can carry
the echo of us
through the ache
of my touch,
even after you vanish
and leave me behind
with no one
to guard my heart.

My hand moves left to right,
over a blank piece of paper,
smudging what I write.
As my sleeve
absorbs my pens red ink,
The edge of my white sweatshirt
turns a shade of light pink.
"just roll up your sleeves"
I can't, not even a little bit.
It may not seem like a big deal to you,
but that's where I hide my secrets.
You may be okay with sharing yours,
But I try to forget mine exist.
You write your secrets in a diary,
and I write mine on my wrist.