xv. WHAT'S LEFT.
your name wrote itself out in the ashes of what we once were. the whistle of the wind couldn't even blow what was left away. i guess in the end, all i wanted was for you to stay, and for that, i'm left with a sour taste in my mouth whenever your name falls flat from my heavy lips.
YOU ARE READING
what tomorrow brings.
Poetryxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
