You taste like burnt cinnamon.
Doesn't it bother you that you will never be alive again?
Never lit again?
If I leave now, and let you go,
I'm worried no one will matter like you have to me,
The thought still hangs a hook through my fingertips,
That I will be burned out someday too,
And that you will not have cared.
YOU ARE READING
All For You.
Poetry*First Place Winner in Poetry - The Quill Awards* ❝All the tears, All the sleepless nights. All the 2 a.m. poetry, All the brilliant lights. All the second guessing, All the wrongs and rights. It is all for ...
