My memories of you yellowed and faded until they were nothing more than a blur of lonely photographs, indistinct and frayed and torn and grey and black and white and forgotten and etched away from the expanse of what used to be.
YOU ARE READING
Written in the Wondering State
Poetry"If we exist only to someday cease, Who are we here to please? These drops of life we continue to seize; Do they make us thieves?" If poetry is constantly spilling out of me like ink upon the parchment of an aspiring writer, then why not write it al...
