Aline had been dreaming on the couch when suddenly he couldn’t feel his arms and legs anymore. They were limp noodles, a flop of human…
the crescent is a Wordsworthsolitary reaper poem ㅤ picked up& placed in the blanched night sky with wounds & scars for starsfrom…
Sometimes I just want to lay my headOn your thighAnd look at the skyAt nightWhile you’re sitting on the benchIn the balcony…
Countless timesI see you walk,Each timeI want to talk,But I just stalk,Giving myself false hopeKnowing…
He used to wipe my tears away
With his trigger finger.
I should have realized
It was a warning.
Ice cold but delicate.
uncalculated,
as threads of story are
woven together like
fingers,
entwined.