sadness is a poem on its own.

What are you reading?
Words, words, words—
Hamlet was right!

she bleeds ink and
he doesn't bleed at all

I like 7pm.

Lipstick is faded; it's color has bled through not only the infinite number of words she says,
it is seeped right into all on these lines and creases of her lips.

Hair is undone; wispy little messes out of braids.

Eyes are tired; sleep edging on eyelashes.

And yet he still wanted her *more.