Your warm breath on a
Cold day, the fingerprints that
You pressed into my skin,
They tell me that no matter where
I'll go, and how patched-up I appear to be,
I'll always be your glass mosaic on the window,
When you had decided to break what was already broken.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
