The pen has all its ink dried up
The pages have turned yellow
And the story has been half way to its 15th page
The table has rusted ends trying to soak the tears that have fallen on it while i wrote about you
The chair is covered with a layer of dust and deep breaths
The room is locked now
I don't go there anymore
I stop by its door
But then i hear my papers screaming calling for us
So i turn away
The fullstop was us
- our not written story
YOU ARE READING
Burning water
Poetrya set of poetry oozing out of my hands. stories that feel like moon to your stars and dream that burn your skin like the sun. Can water burn you? Yes when its splashing comd yet boiling hot when you can see death kissing your life. some minimal dra...
