Hands and Pebbles

The black pen dries in my wet hands. 

These shimmering hands hold: 

Meanness, a spit. 

Regret, a kill. 

Guilt, a constant, slapping slap.

The night is full of thoughts, 

pebbles lost in the ocean floor. 

They won't rise. 

I sink: swimming down, drowning, 

just to feel the softness of their tears.

A light watches from far away. 

Under it, lambs walk, 

their fleece glowing, stars on the ground. 

The light remains fixed. 

My eyes remain fixed, 

holding: A drop of despair, 

A drop of depression, 

A drop of desire.