xiii. REPAIRING WHAT'S LEFT OF YOU.
there is a photograph i find my fingers often tracing over. black and white, our backs turned to the camera that caught the day i spilt my first confession and meant it with all i had to give. you said it back, you stuttered on your words.
that should've been my first warning.
i forgive you.
YOU ARE READING
what tomorrow brings.
Poetryxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
