poetry

Untitled

Tears didn’t lace with ink

As she sat by the window

Dreaming of a bigger world.

She would whisper to the night,

Thinking something was listening,

Eluding subjects of pain and love

For being too difficult to write.

Sweetheart, it’ll hurt to be lost,

Forever will grow too long,

And when the 4am static just gets too loud,

Don’t give up and become background noise.

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