and i look at her like she put the stars in the sky, like she gave each star a name only we knew and the moon a voice only we could hear. and for each breath she speaks, i run to the moon to tell her of her beauty. what a stellar cat-and-mouse language this has become, for each time i run to call the moon, you are too busy naming the stars. timing is a hell of a conflict these days.
YOU ARE READING
everything is (not) okay
شِعرa collection of short poems and stories written by the fingertips of the most heartbroken soul trying to mend itself through words and painfully sad poetry.
