Smoking the petrichor
fills my head with minty exhales
and sleep-drug drops,
The sky pulls out her long face
and droopy eyes,
The trees sighs in every sways and the toads sleeps in between the wet rocks,
For a brief moment, the air is cold.
Not freezing but graveyard cold.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 7:37 AM UTC
Smoking the petrichor
fills my head with minty exhales
and sleep-drug drops,
The sky pulls out her long face
and droopy eyes,
The trees sighs in every sways and the toads sleeps in between the wet rocks,
For a brief moment, the air is cold.
Not freezing but graveyard cold.
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