I wrote stories on the back of your palm,
of waning moons and tides,
and how they came to be
of the deep setting of your eyes,
and how those also came to be
of the miniscule role we play in reality,
and how it makes my chest ache
of the emptiness that echoes
and echoes in me, reverberating
of the creases on your discarded shirt,
and the throb of our unsteady hearts
of the lights dancing outside
and their imminent deaths from overuse
of everything and nothing
that makes me wonder if we have either
but with a tug,
the stories ended all at once,
abrupt,
like we had.
YOU ARE READING
colours
Random"can you paint with all the colours of the wind," a bunch of scenes accompanied with plots I am yet to figure out © s.addy, 2014-2015
