Warm white amber and Iced Rosé,
she looks so beautiful with the moonlight shimmering across her freckles
and yet
there's something so sinister about an ethereal moment
knowing that at any time
the hands of the clock can break and crumble,
throwing us into a whirlwind of confusion about our departure,
reminiscing on too many missed flights, too many unsuitable conditions for our wings,
until we spread them again and fly our separate ways,
with wine-stained breath and frigid fingertips
is this how this story ends?
With us
caught in the paradox of fear,
too afraid to fall,
yet too tired to keep flying?
About the Creator
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Comments (1)
Your writing was outstanding.