Something in your eyes stops
before it reaches me.
The warmth has left your voice.
You, once a garden,
now a grave.
Is this the place where I bury
the part of me
that still waits?
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 6:50 AM UTC
Something in your eyes stops
before it reaches me.
The warmth has left your voice.
You, once a garden,
now a grave.
Is this the place where I bury
the part of me
that still waits?
I wanted to grow this into something longer, but the rest of it hasn't found me yet. So for now, I’m leaving it here as it is :)