I am the little tin girl
Longing for fickle things
That aren't hers to long for.
You are my paper ballerina
Who holds my little tin heart
In her burning hands.
We blaze together
In this time-worn furnace
Down to a crisp.
The melty tin heart is the last remain
Of our short-lived firework romance.
Love doesn't last.
It only chars what's left of it.
YOU ARE READING
Phosphenes
Poetry"The colours aren't real. Words bring them alive." An iridescence of poetry.
