"it's late,"
you whisper,
rolling over in bed
your eyes are tired
your eyes are red
"i'm sorry,"
i mumble,
though it's not fully true
i'd rather be miles away
i'd rather never face you
"i'll see you tomorrow?"
she'd asked with a smile,
hoping that i'll stay
she ran her hands though my hair
she ran my heart astray
"goodnight,"
i sigh,
disappearing back into my head
it's hard to feel faithful
it's hard when love is dead
//Low-key still in a Crucible mood so this is sorta John Proctor-y//
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
