Tiny specks of glass lay in the street lights,
as we make our way past the distant sound of laughter,
the scuff of your shoes matches the beat of my chest,
the moon filters through spanish moss to play with your hair
as my fingers itch
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 1:05 AM UTC
Tiny specks of glass lay in the street lights,
as we make our way past the distant sound of laughter,
the scuff of your shoes matches the beat of my chest,
the moon filters through spanish moss to play with your hair
as my fingers itch
Request permission to use this poem