John forgets, some days. He forgets that he once again requires the help of his cane to get around; forgets that their flat is quiet not just because a certain consulting detective has locked himself in his mind palace; forgets that there’s no one waiting on the couch to deduce how his day at the clinic went; forgets that Sherlock is gone. John forgets, some days, that he now makes tea for one.
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Your quiet mumblings
like the hushed rustle
of old pages.
Your soft delicate skin
like a smooth leather
But most of all
you’re my favorite book
because of the fascinating stories
you hold within your heart.
my second poem on We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/89840689
Thank you so much for this, it helps alot.
YEA OKAY THANKS CARRY ON WAYWARD SON IS REALLY GONNA CHEER ME UP