SEVENTEEN
hold me while you canHold me, because there is no
guarantee that this will all last.
What happens when I begin
to lose the hint of your kiss?
When I can no longer retrace
your fingertips?― Lost, even though I know
exactly how I got where I am.
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PoetryMELANCHOLY | Melancholy drips from my fingertips. Here, I will speak the sadness, the heartache, and the decaying for all the unspoken. Perhaps under this layer of melancholy, the girl I once knew still exists. First poetry collection i...