There was magic here
when the ground
was even
When the hole in my chest
wasn't sputtering
When expectation
wasn't so hopelessly
impossible.
There was magic here
when we weren't choking
on ruin
Despite
respite
we are aching here
among this sorcery
and even in the emptiness
we thought things
could have been different
We hoped
but by the blinking of our eyes
desperate for her company—
there was nothing here
YOU ARE READING
Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection
شِعرThis collection examines things like slow descents, passion and things that fizzle out quickly.
