deepundergroundpoetry.com
Missing her
Missing her is like being trapped in a hurricane of butterflies with sharp razors for wings.
Missing her is an ice storm, hard and frigid.
Most days, missing her is the slow climb out of bed on days when the sun feels like the burning acid of words you did not say, or said all too late in the company of her ghost.
Missing her is an ice storm, hard and frigid.
Most days, missing her is the slow climb out of bed on days when the sun feels like the burning acid of words you did not say, or said all too late in the company of her ghost.
Published 6th Apr 2017
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6th Apr 2017 8:58pm
