(no subject)

[edgeofasparrow]

cry next to the stove, we
Ghosts. made of up shadows and mirrors
a throb, the lonesomes with their golden arrows
Behold the lull, the outside

cry, hands on your head and face
the humid walls sweat
and condensation drips down the windows
dancing on the glass to see
a face, so faintly. To see a wet
expression.

We Have No Umbrellas
The spiral staircase
And empty-handed we have jewels.