Photo by Azarova Natasha


While the time is passing with every tick of the second hand,

the image of you stays on the shadows
-as the wrinkles on the sheets draw your body that haunts my waking hours

and the bare, nameless bed spells what is left of us.

As the sun is slowly creeping into the wilderness of this room,

the last of your scent and memories 

dissolve into the thick, heavy air chastising my every breath with the poison of your promises and toxin of your kisses.


Shadows, sheets, scents

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