Mar 14
The vines
have given up on us,
their fruit—
small,
sun-starved,
hard as regret,
refusing to soften.
We peel back skin,
bite deep into silence,
the taste withered—
unmoving,
and we are—
all tired.
have given up on us,
their fruit—
small,
sun-starved,
hard as regret,
refusing to soften.
We peel back skin,
bite deep into silence,
the taste withered—
unmoving,
and we are—
all tired.
(55/M/Canada)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
