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East Of The Wall
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The distant mock of warmth: an aftertaste of the bodies’ greeting collision. You’ll never feel that again. I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and leaving blank shores. I strained to hear the distant waves encroaching, eroding wood and home. I can’t recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin. It washed away with the taste of ashes. I grind my teeth but it’s gone. As we walk, we’ll pass through the last of night, sick with dust and smiles. The mock of warmth: you’ll never feel that again.
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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