The way your voice sounded 357 pages ago,
a sweet cut across on wintry darkness; flitting out were all the stars.
The little husky notes living in the
b r e a t h i n g s p a c e s
of
your lungs and mouth to lips are like bookmarks.
I never quite lost the page I stopped at.
I dare not read on.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
The way your voice sounded 357 pages ago,
a sweet cut across on wintry darkness; flitting out were all the stars.
The little husky notes living in the
b r e a t h i n g s p a c e s
of
your lungs and mouth to lips are like bookmarks.
I never quite lost the page I stopped at.
I dare not read on.
