TWENTY-SEVEN
withered into shambles
You leave without any notice.
Not a crease from our bed left in shambles,
not a sour note from our bowing floor.
I try to trace your footsteps,
but you've covered your tracks.
― like you always do.
Who is the person you go to when you need to smile?
𐎀 My boyfriend & my best friend are my favorite people ♡
May
YOU ARE READING
𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 ➙ 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
PoetryMELANCHOLY | Melancholy drips from my fingertips. SOON TO BE A PUBLISHED PAPERBACK. COMING 2025! This melancholy drips from my fingertips so slowly, you begin to forget I even exist. All of me, the hard parts of flesh you could never seem to love...
