All that becomes of us, is the antique sky above. Where liquid has been drawn from my skin, from my sweat, our sweat, and drawn upward to the clouds. Where, sunlight hits my lost expression and through it sends spectrums across my fingers. I suppose, that, what I have is beautiful and forever amongst the sky. In the breath of the winds i’ve confessed to, and drawn from my skin into my mother sea.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
All that becomes of us, is the antique sky above. Where liquid has been drawn from my skin, from my sweat, our sweat, and drawn upward to the clouds. Where, sunlight hits my lost expression and through it sends spectrums across my fingers. I suppose, that, what I have is beautiful and forever amongst the sky. In the breath of the winds i’ve confessed to, and drawn from my skin into my mother sea.
