You write poetry about the way my hair cascades down my shoulders, the way my eyes brighten at the sight of something that sets my soul ablaze; about the way I move. Talk. Think. Breathe.
And I ponder the day that will come when I have nothing more to say to you.
YOU ARE READING
Desolate Moon (SS 2)
Poetrymore exhibitionism, more emotional outbursts, more uncomfortably uncut honesty. TRIGGER WARNING.
