Nothing matters
except you
when I am curled
beside your grave.
The cool breeze
bites my bare skin,
passing through me
like a ghost.
The dead grass
scratches
like the sorrow
in the walls
of my throat.
No matter how
hard I try
to fight it back,
it resurfaces.
The only thing
I want back
is you.
grabbing glass instead of crushed diamonds in my fist.
YOU ARE READING
Titles are Overrated
PoetryThis is the equivalent of Notes app on your phone, so yeah, exposing myself. I guess it's considered poetry. Enjoy. :)
