quiet.
gentle.
a fire that
touches the
tips of my
fingers,
like a candle
to carry with
me in the dark.
a smile that
seems
to flood the
corners of
the rooms
in my heart.
and oh,
those eyes.
they deserve a
poem all to
themselves.
you are
a small press
of sugar
in a world
that's heavy
and makes
my brain
feel
cold.
thank you,
(even if
you don't really
know what
i mean).
thank you.
YOU ARE READING
the colour of mirrors
Poetrybecause there's only ever a moment, in between the waiting and the ones who are waited for.
