Dispatch 391.1.45
Strip away the poems. The memory. The ache. The hope. What’s left?
1:45 AM What Is Left?
Strip away the poems.
The memory.
The ache.
The hope.
What’s left?
You.
Still glowing in my chest like a lantern I didn’t mean to swallow.
Strip away the poems. The memory. The ache. The hope. What’s left?
Strip away the poems.
The memory.
The ache.
The hope.
What’s left?
You.
Still glowing in my chest like a lantern I didn’t mean to swallow.