Thursday, 7 September 2017

The Crossover

A crack
the smooth stone in my hand
mist on the grass

We splintered into warnings:
not yet.  Not yet.
So sorry to hear you cry
for the piercing pain between
your eyes
this sorrow 
not their suggestion 
but a fact
god, let me stay

sent back

Kiss the trees for me, lovely
I am longing
I am so afraid

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