pale turnings of what was;
i do not understand the color of my own cheeks.
and i have whispered your name,
for weeks,
begging to be called upon.
pink begs to be seen, too-
enlacing itself with the freckles of my cheeks,
quietly asking you to tell me just once you see the moon too.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
