We are borrowed from the another world with skins made of silver, and hairs tangled with honeysuckle. If I weren't me, I would be you. The sun, with three shades of misery shines brighter today, with an empty haven of misfortunes. If you were a whisper, I would tell how beautiful the words, which you have carefully stacked up inside, like Monet's flowers grow with kindness and disarranged sorrow. I borrow light from you, like the moon, to breathe, I borrow your nostalgia, a dangerously crafted amethyst, and wrap it on my chest.
The faded, muave walls remind me of dead butterflies in our kitchen, I crave to attain some of your poetry into mine, to have your words inside my lungs, perhaps, then, our histories will entwine themselves and we will be four shades of an everlasting blue.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoesiaCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
