it's about him again
august7twenty18
how could a collection of the most vibrant oceans one's ever laid eyes on become another's heartbeat?
oh, how I've laced my subconcious with your softest storms at sea, salty air sparking fiery pinpricks to inspire in my eyes. how they've tortured me with the bare sky, naked and colorless. it all left.
the dead heart goes on. immerses. runs. but the dead heart can never escape its pain.
the hollow will continue to ache, words will continue to flow down into it to make it pang with a feeling that isn't a feeling, with an emptiness so infectiously barren.
left. left. left. for someone who's bound on turning right, left turns seem to be pretty common across the dashboard.
absence is key. healing is fine, but healing is imaginary. death does not heal.
leave, with a touch so warm, a touch that, when gone, allowed the cold to take over. completely.
long sleeves proved useless. I always wanted you, anyway
YOU ARE READING
Millions [Poetry]
Poesíaa collection of words describing specific pain. my poetry doesn't follow any rules. my style may change but the words remain insane. ✨minimal to no cursing✨depression✨anxiety✨ hopeless romantic babble✨ proceed with caution. 2017-2018
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