XI.
i am sitting at the café we used to visit.
the cup in my hands burns my skin, and i blow some steam off the top.
my coffee does not cool.
B
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fifteen (XV)
Poetryi prick my finger on a rose in my garden. my blood is not red. i take the wind caressing my face as a silent apology. cover art made by doradorapuff on tumblr. [2015] thank you to everyone who shared with me these short poems as they were published...
XI.
XI.
i am sitting at the café we used to visit.
the cup in my hands burns my skin, and i blow some steam off the top.
my coffee does not cool.
B
