Someone put their hand on me at the station. It could have been a child or a bishop. My face; they put their hand on my face. It could have been you or your sister. They put their hand on my face at Union Station and I could not see. I could hear the track numbers. I could feel the breeze. But I could not see. I could smell the hand on my face. It smelled like you. Like it had touched you, or your face.
No comments:
Post a Comment