I breathe out wispy cottony clouds of silvery mist borne from the depths of my lungs warmed by the thump thumping of my pound pounding heart. You are an angry spectator. You are a sheltered moth. The wind has sliced my face raw. There should be more than this but there isn’t.

Not until you have bled your own eyes dry.

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1 Response to

  1. fecca says:

    meddie, welkem back…

    it’s almost a year…


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