A million little galactic lips kiss all over the sky. The sun is too crushed to remain in the now-indigo wards. Daylight runs by nervously. Flowers have had their colors eaten by the overtaking of midnight. Nature has been embroidered in my heart by unseen, unapologetic hands, and while I'm out in it, I feel like a miracle among miracles.
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.
