Among flowers we hide, legs crossed and fingers intertwined, much like the stalks surrounding us.
Me, softly caressing your warm, wet cheek. Your eyes are red and glazy.
I whisper comforting words to you, the kind that feels like a mild breeze in late August, gently leading you to some other place, far, far away from where you should be.
But alas, a summer breeze cannot prevail in a hurricane.
They rip us apart, dragging us by our limbs and clothes and anything else they can grab.
We scream for each other, reaching out to touch one last time.
Trampled flowers are all that is left.
YOU ARE READING
A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
