"How'd you get here? I wasn't looking for you."
She laughed and leaned back against the roof tiles. "No one comes looking for me. I'm not your first thought when you wake up in the morning, nor am I the one you make plans with."
She turned. "But at two a.m. when you're drunk on your rooftop, choking on your tears on a summer night, you'll find me."
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...
