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Jan 2021
Pursed lips french exhale into the coldness of late January
On the inhale I can taste your cemetery shadows
The rich, bitter heat of your stalwart heart
Thumping to the tune of midnight
I want to draw on your edges with salt and whiskey
Make it burn, make it hurt
Let it really sink in how far away our fingertips have become
Am I still she?
Is this still me?
Looking for answers under the bird feeder
All I find are empty shells
Wanderer
Written by
Wanderer  Between Midnight and 3am
(Between Midnight and 3am)   
182
       Brandon, M Vogel and Wanderer
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