Exact(1)
As your blouse falls with that light descent, as it lets go of one thin arm and then the other, passing like my held breath over your waist and thighs and onto your ankles, my name and identity go too, I am a lost passport, a spy forgetting his country.
Similar(59)
My mom held my hand.
My words hold my truth.
In his hospital bed, my son holds my thumb.
I pointed at my pocket, which held my phone.
My ligaments held.
My luck held out.
Thankfully, my stomach held.
My mother held her silver rosaries.
"My neighbor held me while I cried".
Initially, my theory held up.
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Justyna Jupowicz-Kozak
CEO of Professional Science Editing for Scientists @ prosciediting.com