i don't think i can ever go back to the beach again.
spring left an early gift of warmth for the underbelly of summer but there were already mists dispersing in thin air on our front porch.
it feels chilly, especially not having you sit beside me as you braid my hair and i tell you stories about a girl who hijacked the moon. your heart would chuckle because you think i was just describing you. but the girl could swim, and you couldn't.
it's been fifty-five days, and i still think about you and the moongirl drowning.
๓.
delilah
YOU ARE READING
17, Still Can't Swim
Poetryshe took madness too seriously, all written in paper with her own blood.
