I just want to become an art under his hands, to be made up of ripped colors and lines. I only want to be whispered like an old, forgotten spell, to be sighed and murmured in his darkest nights. I want to be the song that plays over and over in his mind, to be the watch on his wrist that does not tell time.
But I'm only a spilled ink smeared across his desk—dried up, cracked, a poem left unsaid.
YOU ARE READING
Written Constellations
PoetryA constellation of prose, poetry, and verses spun together for a galaxy of love, life, heartache, and hope.
