her eyes are the grass in which she frolics
and the rose patterned couch in which she lazes
arms over the side with her hair always sleek
her hair is the night that surrounds me
and the color in which she sleeps
eyes slanted with dreams as she twitches in slumber
her hands are the sunset dipped into sunrays
and the days in which she comes back to me
hands bloody that stain the cold tiles
my love, she leaves me
i fear one day she won't come back
YOU ARE READING
𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌
Poetrystatic stat·ic ˈstat-ik. adjective characterized by a lack of movement or change trigger warning: read at your own risk! | just an unnecessarily long collection of me trying to get over my feelings
