convinced your scent will never leave the place it has burrowed into under my fingernails,
i try to meet you at your altitude and now you are gone
and im just another bird carried by the whim of the stratosphere.
this high flying freedom used to be where we all lived and drank wine
and i remember when. and that used to be. and once it was.
even the mountain will pause before the sun rises over its edge and forms its lines.
every smile will still always be mine
the watercolor in the rain on the window
No comments:
Post a Comment