the life i want with you is
far
beyond the horizon.
i can feel my chest
ache for
any contact with
your skin.
my fingers
break
through the ground
and
grow like roots
to
search for you.
my roots touch yours
ever so
lightly; from a
friendly length.
but
i want them
to
intertwine
and
grow as one.
YOU ARE READING
plastic
Poetrymost wings are made of bones and skin and feathers, but what if mine are made of nothing but rubber and glue?
