Now without you here the spaces between my fingers seem to last miles. My knuckles white against peach stand out like landmarkers pointing to places we made. My sholders became landfills, my spine an empty highway, my freckles forgotten lighthouse's without you. You took the noise and the bustle of the town we made.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
Now without you here the spaces between my fingers seem to last miles. My knuckles white against peach stand out like landmarkers pointing to places we made. My sholders became landfills, my spine an empty highway, my freckles forgotten lighthouse's without you. You took the noise and the bustle of the town we made.
