I can't
love
you
near enough:
it's as if
ten months later
we've become
less of dauntless strangers
and more of
empty-souled
victims
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
