sometimes
I forget
that even the most
yellowest people
are capable of
feeling blue
always on the edge
of disappearance
there something
uneasy about him
he's the sunflower
burning in the daylight
and the poem left to rot
I'm worried
his saturday's
are feeling too much
like sunday's
and that his silhouette
is disappearing too
—he's not okay when he said he was
YOU ARE READING
an ocean of teardrops
PoetryI avoid surfaces with reflections, avoid facing reality. At the sea, where I last washed away my scars only to have them appear in different places, different faces. And so I try comforting myself through imaginary conversations with the people I lo...
