Gnashing teeth.
All too familiar.
Ache of muscles,
Too safe.
Run towards grief,
Like a cloak to be burrowed under.
When it gets too warm,
And no wind carries you asunder.
Beg for relief of tedious space.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
Gnashing teeth.
All too familiar.
Ache of muscles,
Too safe.
Run towards grief,
Like a cloak to be burrowed under.
When it gets too warm,
And no wind carries you asunder.
Beg for relief of tedious space.
