i. THINKING OF YOU.
it was how the rain fell, the mossy breath of the cemetery rose. it was when your tombstone arrived, a few graves down from the bench that creaked quietly under the bare branches of the wicked tree. it was where you cried yourself to sleep the night your mother kicked you out, where you told me that it was the only place you truly had company. it was the whistle in the wind, the way spring flowers bloomed around your name.
sleep well, friend,
until we meet again.
YOU ARE READING
what tomorrow brings.
Poetryxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
