so I guess you were there

in the shadows of bold thoughts

and scarred windows. under that

disrespected willow tree my mum

hurries underneath my wool cloak;

shadows of my her.

so i breath abruptly and dillute your

winter with a fresh broken cloud and

hurried neptune green.

i want a slow branched story 

tucked underneath 

my rustic wings so that i may

fly as soon as i close the last 

page of my disaster.

 

distracted stars

i am experienced and

i am an anomaly of distracted stars.

settled and crippled and delusional

in your logic. ropes across our

foreheads and plastic dreams

are worth it no more.

subject me in your verbs;

i live better this way.