Will the overgrown lisianthus
above us all reach my overgrown
garden of a mind in time?
She does not die, she does not lie,
pressing herself like a
fingerprint in my blue,
illusory home.
I feel too close to her,
though time has never
swept us up together.
She doesn't leave, though I
close my eyes.
She celebrates my scars, scattered
across the now-black skies.
CZYTASZ
SUNSHOWERS
Literatura FaktuA book of poetry. A book of tears. A book of blood and sweat, too. A book to hold me. Will you let it hold me?
