Already his call - in that hour
grew soft
He said,
"It staggers my eyes
the way that she casually wounds me."
Lashes cradled liquid memories
and joined bodies sputtered there.
By dawn-less morning,
only one sang
and only one breathed
YOU ARE READING
Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection
PoesíaThis collection examines things like slow descents, passion and things that fizzle out quickly.