In the back,
I count,
And there are fifteen,
Perfect little pink lines.
Like she crafted them,
From her heart,
Carving with passion,
Painting the canvas with different shades,
But only red.
The next day there are twenty.
YOU ARE READING
Wilted
PoetryShe couldn't see him, But she was all he could see. Raw Poetry, by: Mae Ethlyn
