When nighttime falls
It's you who holds on
Your hands are glass bones
And your voice is a faded rose
Your delicate presence is all too known
For you were the one who set me alight
Drowning in the ocean, all alone
For such a sweet fruit, you left a bitter aftertaste
Nighttime crawled along your pale skin
And wormed its way into your heart
Which is why, I suppose
Your voice was cold and black
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
