we’ve hit every topic: reincarnation, the universe politics, love and all it did was create a void that i’ll never be able to fill. regardless of the amount of poetry i devour or literature i pretend to understand at the end of the day i am just as empty as before reading shakespeare or the brontë sisters
not a sound escapes his vacuum-sealed-tight lips but he wraps his steady branches of arms around my shivering twigs and he holds me until nature has reclaimed the earth and us with it
for a few days every spring flowers bloom and every layer of fog separating my brain from my body and from that the world is lifted and i am worth loving