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There is a sweater that is buried under the rug like all our fights in a brown household/
The microwave is churning in it's own pace, the television is struggling to flicker like a person blinking faster than usual without their spectacles/
why can't I get my thoughts to breathe?/
the sweater that my mother has sowed has been a saga of a love with a tale of numerous heartbreak within/
the coffee stains on the sleeve remind me of the time when my mother poured too much cramael in my coffee cup - it's proof that overload of sweetness can cause flooding within a container, a country/
why is it that the hands of lovers always reach for edges or endings?
For places with too soft skin or body parts that have darkened under clothing - shouldn't our hands be used for more than just reaching, maybe praying? Because every atheist once was a lover who has now been a doormat for many to walk over while escaping a building on fire.
