i remember how you used to tell me stories.
each word escaping your lip painted a picture on the ceiling above the bed of which we'd lay.
each beautiful line like a kiss upon my forehead,
assuring me i was safe.
but now that beautiful mural of a ceiling is bare,
painted over with tears and the blood of the heart you broke,
and the bed of which it stands above is empty,
whispering fading memories of the many tales you told.
but i suppose you were always good at telling tales, weren't you?
YOU ARE READING
Sweet Lips and Salty Tears
Poesíathis collection of poems and quotes were in my head, clawing their way out before finally being put down to be experienced by all who come across them. welcome to the two places very few people have gone. welcome to my heart and soul.
