Words collected on her nightstand like bones in a graveyard, Waiting for a more suitable time to reassemble themselves into The things she meant to say. Would there be a more suitable time to breathe […]
Night’s nimble fingers drag the sun over the horizon
Like a predator hoarding its prey out of sight.
The sun, in its helplessness, bleeds the sky.
Romantics bask in its wounds,
Admiring its shades of anguish.
Uninhibited, the full moon bends her face
And recklessly plunges her velvet tongue through the sky,
Bruising the boy… with a kiss.