Avatar 2eff38b76129 128

Grace Hammond


These words
that are my own
Are my blood and
are my bones.

Message from Writer

Absolutely any feedback is welcomed with open arms - thank you for taking the time to check out my stuff!


July 29, 2015


A touch is an echo, which, like whispers, leave gentle tendrils of memory caressing the mind. Sound fades, grows distant, and becomes lost in the abyss that is the unknown, and the tender strokes become less and less remembered. Recollections of a touch linger only when it was felt as sweetly as a kiss or as sharply as an abrasion. Hailed, it lingers. Reviled, it lingers. Peripheral, it fades. When time scampers on and touches are felt and forgotten, it is often the faded for which we long the most.   


See History

Login or Signup to provide a comment.

1 Comment
  • Grace Mary Potts

    Stop being such a good write Grace! It just makes the rest of us feel bad! Seriously, this is lovely.

    over 3 years ago