Photo by Jakayla Toney on Unsplash
Steps like breaths, light but haggard on my body
Tongue raw from the dusty silk, unwilling fed.
Cigar smoke? No, the perfume again, like flowers suffocated in books.
Shadows—not made from light, tread the same path through veins.
And the stories, finite moments told over and over, with the same ending.
About the Creator
K. Kocheryan
I write, delete, write, and on most days, delete again.
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