I dream in static romances,
where time stands [ still, ]
and clocks no longer
ticticitc
to the sound of h e a r t b e a t s
and old school radio tunes.
The incense of my soul
smell like cherry blossoms,
and what should be
sweet kisses,
big city summers:
A place where I can wear these
[ hieroglyphics ]
On my flesh like a fashion statement
[ And not be just
another angel
covered in ash. ]
YOU ARE READING
Dear Poetry,
PoetryA series of letters and poems hidden between the folds of wishful paper cranes.
