you were hail,
and I was snow -
bleeding the same,
but trained to let go.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
Yellow (9) : slipping out of reach
you were hail,
and I was snow -
bleeding the same,
but trained to let go.
