when i think of april, i think of rain
and the way my living room looked
with you sleeping in it, the soft blue
of the walls, the faint sun setting
orange against your face, my home
was a home because you said it was,
i believed it then, but now when i go back
to (april, rain, touching your neck, kissing
everywhere, never the lips, keeping your
sweater until i hated it) i don’t know how
to make a home, ‘cause when i say it,
nothing happens, i’m left in a house
filled with all these things, a bed, a lamp,
some books, and me.
-
everythingiscopacetic liked this
-
happymonk liked this
-
innermedley liked this
-
daydreamsonlooseleafpaper liked this
-
callistobiscuits liked this
-
jadamwhite posted this
