XXXIX.
in the living room
where my mother kept her yarn and angels,
motes danced in slanted sunbeams
as dusk gave way to shadow.
A
YOU ARE READING
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...
XXXIX.
XXXIX.
in the living room
where my mother kept her yarn and angels,
motes danced in slanted sunbeams
as dusk gave way to shadow.
A
