a little pain, ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ/ʀᴇɪʀᴀ, 01.04
heart, why didn't it hurt that much?
i ask, sunset flushed.
through your fingers he slipped,
like sand, bit by bit;
you knew he'd leave before he was really gone,
she admits.
YOU ARE READING
[14] - monday's child.
Poetry𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘴. original poetry i wrote at fourteen.
「 loss of pain. 」
a little pain, ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ/ʀᴇɪʀᴀ, 01.04
heart, why didn't it hurt that much?
i ask, sunset flushed.
through your fingers he slipped,
like sand, bit by bit;
you knew he'd leave before he was really gone,
she admits.