Aug 2016
The amber sunset in your eyes at ten
The stark white of the morning on your lips at nine
The delicate fingers of sea air through your hair at noon
The ceasing of passing hours without you
Time stops.
I stop.
The stark white of the morning on your lips at nine
The delicate fingers of sea air through your hair at noon
The ceasing of passing hours without you
Time stops.
I stop.
13/08/2016, you're reading 1984 and a plane flies overhead.
