Sorrow’s fingertips shush the last warm light
and the twilight shines pale again.
the breathing next to me doesn’t cease.
though, i guess mine doesn’t either.
i suppose that’s what we call a win.
poetry
Feet cold, pressed on the linoleum floor.
She feels it all around her,
But not in her.
Not yet.
I picture this: two hands
meet in the darkness, and for a moment, real love existed like
no other had before.
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