Your father's old windbreaker still smells of cheap cigarettes,
Your mother's old hat is still breaking at the seems,
Your old shoes are still worn in the sole,
But nothing's been the same.
His stench has bled into his skin, burning everything he touches,
Her threads unravels quickly, and she is able to do so faster,
You went from playing to running, and I was a fool for thinking I could catch you.
YOU ARE READING
Aesthetics
PoesíaI felt it was time for a new beginning, so I've restarted my collection of poems. Feedback is encouraged.
