patter of shoes leaving
in the crack of dawn
the chaste kiss that'd touch her forehead
before the sound of a closed door,
a closed heart.
the sound of paint splatters
onto the piece of paper
was what she was used to.
the shadows of naked bodies
and cartons of milk were on the paper,
and the person who made her feel that way wasn't.
the alarm clock repetitively going off
was what she was used to,
the pain of getting out of bed
was pretty much some heartbreak material.
YOU ARE READING
astronomy•poetry
Poetrythese poems are for the lonely, forgotten, the lost poets at three am, and everyone else in between cover credit: -sidjenkins
