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it's three winters late when you feed his sweater into the fire's maw. the yarn blackening to the satisfied crackle of wood. we signal the sky smoky contrails reaching sand to horizon. someone, phone the medic i think her heart is breaking
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Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
bonfire burial
it's three winters late when you feed his sweater into the fire's maw. the yarn blackening to the satisfied crackle of wood. we signal the sky smoky contrails reaching sand to horizon. someone, phone the medic i think her heart is breaking
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vanish-t
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
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