it was like i'd dropped it at his feet
and ran away.
the book
that i once loved so dearly
lay at his feet
at his disposal.
i didn't care
what he would do with it.
if he travelled to the moon
only to bury it in a crater;
that was his decision.
go ahead.
so each day
in tranquility;
on the bus
and on the phone;
i witnessed him
fold the pages
into odd sorts of triangles
and stare instead of reading.
what he was doing
i do not know;
but with each fold;
each crease in the paper;
- the pain in his eyes flared
and spat at the book before him.
was it because
of words themselves,
or was it because
of me?
YOU ARE READING
shaded wings
Poesiaher wings would bloom when the pencil drew shades of black and white and tare into two when her body flew into the camouflage of night her heart was sewn to anyone but her own forgetting to love herself but there's a boy that knows his love for he...
