Desperate—that's what I am.
I want to be the very air
filling in and out of your lungs.
Necessary. Constant.
I hang on to your every word,
like water to a fish freshly out of its tank.
Darling, don't you know?
You spoke; I breathed.
******
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.
