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perhaps love is all about going over and over again through the letters that you sent;
until I can breathe in all of you that's there in the parchment paper remnants
or how I stubbornly keep holding onto that pearly pink linen
that you ruined with heated coffee stains; as I sadly twirl in our love's broken rhythm
maybe, it's the way your fingers fit perfectly into the crevices of my- like we're made out of moulds;
that didn't completely dry and now all we're left with is the imperfect design
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
