sometimes,
I will go to the edge of the cliff
and remember
how
your fingertips brushed my brow
like feathery
paintbrushes,
newly bought
and smooth.
I would lean close
and just watch the constellation
of freckles
that slightly kissed the bridge of
your nose,
and you would meet your forehead
with mine,
smile,
laugh,
close your lashy,
five-hundred-feet-under-the-ocean
eyes,
and kiss me.
I miss you.
—lana
YOU ARE READING
Love, Lana ✓
Poetryyou're just a constellation; too far away to truly love, only to admire. » a collection of poems written through a blur of tears, memories, and quiet reverie. copyright @diamondsandsun
