11:51 p.m.
sunday eve —
bedroom parlour
***
caked in tears
and the luminesce
of moonlight.
i, the daughter of
the moon was
interrupted from
my musings of
empty, unending
scrolls of reasons
of why my body is
still here even
when my soul
already died.
it was a tap on my
shoulder. subtle but
with force.
so, i twist my head
to see him.
***
YOU ARE READING
Our Vintage Dance on the Phonograph
Poesia"you and - me, we traversed at the eve of the colossal pages of our bedroom balcony." - excerpt there is no other dancing partner i would dance with other than you, my sun. you bring me to places that are wiped out of history - to the gardens of rui...
