evenings cast a violet sheet over the rusty brown zinc roofs that litter the view of the clouds, but he needs them out of his sight if he's going to get on with destroying the beauty that is night time.
a salty sea pools at the fullness of his cheek and he roughly mops it away; men do not cry.
but he doesn't realize that he is no man. just a confused little boy in a body too big for his heart, and a world too wild for his dance.
he cannot grasp the concept of growth fully, as his wobbly feet still fall multiple times a second, and no mercy is shown because he is too old for this.
but he has the good mind to figure to out, and to be fine along the way.
YOU ARE READING
wordlings
Poetryi like words. so i write them. now you have to read them. cover by -daisukii
