Oct 2018
a million lines make a window:
each suspended,
each digressing in the paleness
of space.
this distance from
you (a blotch of dark ink,
bits of pressed lead)
can never hurt more
than your expectation.
each suspended,
each digressing in the paleness
of space.
this distance from
you (a blotch of dark ink,
bits of pressed lead)
can never hurt more
than your expectation.
i spent the last weekend waiting in anticipation. each morning i woke up with a hope—a plethora of possibility that faded with the setting sun.
i suppose i wouldn't have it any other way.
i suppose i wouldn't have it any other way.
