Her pale calloused fingers graze through the holes of what's left of the bridge
All burnt up, ashes, to the other side of that— somewhere
Her eyes seem to linger to every detail of what could be seen on the edge of the wood structure
Looking for something, someone, with the thought of, maybe, they'd appear, with wood, a hammer, and nails as they would lock eyes and reminisce.
She waits
She waits
Until the long hand she waits was from the clock that pointed to 12.
She wasn't ready to let go
She was like the bridge
Half burnt
Half built
A line that was not far from mutual nor close to singularity.
She didn't know
She wasn't prepared
She couldn't take action.
Just like the state the bridge was before.
-Butter
YOU ARE READING
Miss Haze
Poetry" ѕhє σncє ѕαíd ѕhє wαѕ thє σcєαn. вut αѕ ѕhє dívєd ín, ѕhє wαѕ ín α ѕtαtє σf cσnfuѕíσn " She was Miss Blue ✳️ ☁️ Miss Haze, is she //poetry series//a story of hazy thoughts and poems Started: 10/03/19 Published: 10/20/19 ♦ [ Update: Tryi...
