Aug 5
I wear longing
like a second skin
soft to the eye,
raw underneath.
I am untethered.
Love’s ghost
skirts my edges
never landing,
leaving only the ache
of being less
than nothing to hold.
like a second skin
soft to the eye,
raw underneath.
I am untethered.
Love’s ghost
skirts my edges
never landing,
leaving only the ache
of being less
than nothing to hold.
