SUNDAY
The subtle smell of pasta boiling,
These eyes float through glass,
Out onto the orbed Street.
For once, I didn't feel beholden,
or behoved. Within the waxen glimmer,
the drapes embraced me.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
SUNDAY
The subtle smell of pasta boiling,
These eyes float through glass,
Out onto the orbed Street.
For once, I didn't feel beholden,
or behoved. Within the waxen glimmer,
the drapes embraced me.
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