Mar 2019
every year, the sky weaves a blanket of snow and places it gently onto the earth, slowly
suffocating what once was alive, and
suffocating parts of me that have yet to die, I wonder,
what could possibly be left to **** in a graveyard.
suffocating what once was alive, and
suffocating parts of me that have yet to die, I wonder,
what could possibly be left to **** in a graveyard.
