You are the sun.
I could set myself on fire
And I could never compare to you.
When my hand touches yours,
My palm burns.
You are the moon.
In the darkness of the night
All I can see is your faint glow.
When my hand touches yours,
Moon dust rubs off on my palm.
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PoésieThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
