It's the fall when you throw yourself off a cliff. The fleeting moment when no one is there to catch you. It's the air where their arms should have been.
It's the salted tears the run into your mouth and sit on your tongue when it's too dark to see the mirror.
It's the cold you feel when your blankets aren't warm enough.
It's the color of droopy eyes, and dull faces. It's the emptiness in your laugh, and the echoes that come back to you. It's the bare walls in the living room and the hole in your chest. It's the breath you take in and don't let go of, as you wait. It's the air.
The air where something was supposed to be.
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These are all from different writing prompts. I'll go back and give credit where credit is due, in time. ~October
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
