Esquire Theme by Matthew Buchanan
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24

Jun

pin through wings.

a shadow casted on a thin wall.

the electric lid of space sent spiraling

with silhouette bodies, tangled into one

core. their words never buoyant to be heard-ingested into

the safe of promiscuity. 

released like balloons into a misted sky.

they are gone.

the lingering of inadvertence stings in your rose coloured glasses-but all to be left scarred is the notches etched into your post.

and the one you want carved into your palms

is the butterfly against a desert of grains.

-b