Mar 2015
The bed is only half empty,
it is not half full.
as i clutch the wrinkled bed sheets
beneath my tiny balled up fists.
Black mascara staining my tears
that run down cold cheeks,
cold from not having been touched by your lips
cold from waking up
only to find you gone.
it is not half full.
as i clutch the wrinkled bed sheets
beneath my tiny balled up fists.
Black mascara staining my tears
that run down cold cheeks,
cold from not having been touched by your lips
cold from waking up
only to find you gone.
This was written a while back, but I hardly had any minor changes. It's funny how nothing really ever happens and your imagination becomes so delusional that we're able to transfer it onto paper where as it becomes amazing works of art!
