Nothing rose from
a garden, as bleak as
the weather that never
melted our skin,
without permission.
We just lifted our agony
to the wind that cut
our flesh, into ribbons.
A celebration, in pain,
savoring those moments
we kissed in the rain.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 9:51 PM UTC
Nothing rose from
a garden, as bleak as
the weather that never
melted our skin,
without permission.
We just lifted our agony
to the wind that cut
our flesh, into ribbons.
A celebration, in pain,
savoring those moments
we kissed in the rain.
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