In which home is six feet under.
Did I tell you, Willow, how your hollow cheekbones call my name at an alarming volume?
In fact, I have the overwhelming urge, to rip that cerulean wool off of your fragile frame, and consume what lies underneath.
In fact, I want to smash in the mahogany that encloses you, and dive down 6 feet to lie with you, my warmth slowly being sucked into the earth.
Did I tell you, Willow, that although I can no longer see you, you are still my only friend?
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry[hiraeth: (n) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which may have never existed.] in which a sapphist becomes enamored with the color of dying grass.
