Maybe it's the autumn air traveling through the breeze,
Maybe it's the way you laid your eyes on me.
Maybe it's the leaves turning from green to red,
Maybe it's how I can't get you out of my head.
Maybe it's the thick smoke in the air,
Maybe it's the way your fingers ran through my hair.
Maybe it's the sun that glows a vibrant red,
Or maybe it's how I need to love myself instead.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
Poésie"Every poem you write should be like someone reading your 'things'. It should be terrifying and incredibly embarrassing. "
