Nothing seems to stay the same
Your hair, the way you smell
The way we struggle with our steps, when we
Learned to dance so long ago
All of these times are stuck
within my memory
Only to sink into silence, never be heard again
YOU ARE READING
3:21 a.m.
PoetryThis is a compendium of words, sentences, and paragraphs written at 3 in the morning heavily influenced by the sweet scent of rum and a kiss of loneliness. Although written with the sincerity of my heart, I should warn you: It is NOT really that goo...
