ON FOREHEADS, THE MOON IS A SHARD MUSING MEMORIES OF DAYS GONE
In this poem, bruises are measured with the pinch of a finger. the night floated with a crave for voices; you unearthed your heart searched your ears for a last
In this poem, bruises are measured with the pinch of a finger. the night floated with a crave for voices; you unearthed your heart searched your ears for a last
