she took my hand today,
and maybe the blood in her veins
is made of snow.
i think today she rains,
because her eyes are distant,
looking at an empty point of the wall,
like it was the most wonderful thing
she has ever seen.
i think she is in her own storm,
and now that i hold her hand,
i must save her.
YOU ARE READING
insomnia.
Random«her name was insomnia, and she was the greatest metaphor a poet has ever written.»
