Man,
you and
I, we sit
on your stoop right
precariously
propped on the top of town,
where the eyes of the world close
and the eyes of our love pop right
open to the sound of two hearts that
beat in time and peace, for the sake of sakes.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
