FIFTY-TWO
beside the smolder of the fireAnd when it comes through,
you'll know it.
The smolder of the fire inside
has died down, and your smile
is stilled.
Wait here, the hopeless
are waiting for the sun
to rise again.
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𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 ➙ 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
PoetryMELANCHOLY | Melancholy drips from my fingertips. SOON TO BE A PUBLISHED PAPERBACK. COMING 2025! This melancholy drips from my fingertips so slowly, you begin to forget I even exist. All of me, the hard parts of flesh you could never seem to love...