Be it a natural thing,
my eyes close
at the press of a milk dewed spoon
on my lower lip, a self
sweet nothing whisper like a kite
flying in the alley
for only a sprint.
I have felt my finite,
entirely in tired aches
and yet,
I'm convinced that if you
put me in a field with no edge
it couldn't contain me.
YOU ARE READING
Her Blue Dress: A Collection (Watty's 2019 Winner)
PoetryA collection of poems, cover by: @itsmarrosee || I am the fray at the end of the yarn, cut from the new blanket, before it becomes a gift.