• vintagewandering 31w

    I remember her fingers.
    They were slightly bent,
    because there were stitches on them.
    I remember the story behind them,
    and the pain I had tried to feel
    when she recounted it to me.

    I remember her warm hugs,
    and the smell of her skin against my nose.
    The kind of fragrance that I could never find in a bottle.

    It comes back to me sometimes,
    on lonely nights, when I’m tired of life,
    and I walk out to the balcony,
    trying to picture her in the black of the sky.

    It comes back to me, when I realize how
    there’s no such sight in the world I’ve seen,
    and no such person I’ve made memories with,
    that could ever match that feeling
    I used to get, lying on my mother’s lap,
    wishing I could perfectly fit in there again.

    - vintagewanderingwords