A poem
The ice shifts in the glass
I am the mother to the self and tell it
Then there were two
a poem
Mother:
The moon is on the move again
Which means I have been drifting
How many days of your life
What am I so afraid of
Bring on oblivion
We never had a song
But loved the tune of the other’s laugh
We were lying in bed this morning, just a couple of hours ago, and he was staring into my eyes and stroking my cheek, an amused smile tickling the…
Cold that burns
Gets into your fingers
