He says I am colourless and uncaring.
A fleeting passage, dog-eared and left upon the mounting dust of a bookshelf. He says he will re-visit me later. That he will always savour the taste of my words as they settle sweetly upon chapped lips. But when blood blossoms upon my torn pages and stories are lost beneath scarlet ink. Still, he does not come back to see me.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
He says I am colourless and uncaring.
A fleeting passage, dog-eared and left upon the mounting dust of a bookshelf. He says he will re-visit me later. That he will always savour the taste of my words as they settle sweetly upon chapped lips. But when blood blossoms upon my torn pages and stories are lost beneath scarlet ink. Still, he does not come back to see me.
And maybe that's for the best
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