I don’t dream of you often,
anymore.
But the notes in my coffee
taste like your morning lips,
evermore.
And though your mug sits
on the top shelf, collecting dust,
my vase sits on yours—
collecting more.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 4:39 PM UTC
I don’t dream of you often,
anymore.
But the notes in my coffee
taste like your morning lips,
evermore.
And though your mug sits
on the top shelf, collecting dust,
my vase sits on yours—
collecting more.
Some objects outlive their meaning. Some collect it.
