the autumn, summer, winter
I wonder when would I be wiser?
That in this weather I would stop
Waiting for you to come back
The footsteps are no longer imprinted
I tried to look, every morning, if it's your voice that I heard
But just a speck of dust linger in my head
There was no longer you, no longer us, and my eyes tingles in red
How could I move forward, if something is holding the mantle of my clothes
Oh it's your perfume
With sting, stuck in my nose
With pang, of the memories it holds
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
