loose.

i wish away
this life
so often;
in favour
of the one
where my hands
are warm,
and my skin
is clear.
and your shoulder
never gets tired
of cradling
my head.

my fingertips
so trained
in the art
of sculpting
your scalp;
your eyes
imprinted with
my tiny face.

my eyes
are aching, boy.
my hands
are cold and cracked.
i am trying.

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