A forest fire. A trail of open wounds and bruises, all deep red and vein green and full of hurt - mine or theirs, I'm not sure, maybe both. A drawer full of unwritten; letters, poems, lists of things we never got to do. A book on survival. Home. The color pink. An open door. That moment of clarity. A closed door. A star before it collapses into itself. A single heartbeat. Vacuum. The words, I love you, but in a different way now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment