Behold her, single in the field.
We dream in separate bodies.
Another June crusts between our fingertips,
a tall brick wall surrounds us.
Long after it was heard no more.
The ancient bottlebrush of sapphism
could not suffice for the sunsets we never kissed.
You and I were passersby and nothing more.
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.
