And I could not help but notice the silent warmth of a child drawing over fogged-up panes, her father watching on in love as she did. Flaring police lights lighting up the lines, their sirens fading away.
I press my hand to the glass, but their is no one to admire the shape of my fingers.
I look away.
— Looking Eyes
YOU ARE READING
Unraveling
PoetryA spill of a heart onto pages. The darkness and beauty of blood into words.
