Home > Life, poetry > Thumbprints.


These still moments

when we sit quietly at dusk and allow the mind to rest

flood and drain us with each slow breath.

We are full with the memory of all that was good and warm,

and empty since a memory is just a memory.

These connections we forge,

both lasting and fleeting,

leave inky thumbprints on our hearts

which can’t be scrubbed away.

You can’t erase touch.

Perhaps there is nothing so sweet as loneliness,

as we revere those thumbprints

and proudly bare our messy hearts.

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