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Wool smells like a rusty memory
Wool smells like a rusty memory of pumping blood.
In winter I will wear a dead woman’s coat.
Fingering things left in pockets
Like rosary beads,
My childish fingertips sneak deep into fabric folds, eager for the shock
Of this intimacy with nothingness.
the title of this poem really
the title of this poem really pulled me in, I love it!
and I am not going to lie the poem was not what I was expecting from it which I also love!
Much Love
Ashley
I'm fascinated with the way
I'm fascinated with the way the past sometimes lingers and the connections that often come unbidden. Beautifully written!