Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started

home in your arms

sunlight through paper thin curtainsbrushes the side of your pale facewith a golden tendril of loveas the machines beep incessantlyyour breathing the only soundin a silent world. but even the best have to fall,and the happiest have to cry,so your breaths peter out,one by one,till sunlight fades into the tendril of death,who brushes your hairContinue reading “home in your arms”

Advertisement