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Poetry

A collection of poems, cover by: @itsmarrosee || I am the fray at the end of the yarn, cut from the new blanket, before it becomes a gift.

Milk

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by heyalihey

by heyalihey

Be it a natural thing,

my eyes close

at the press of a milk dewed spoon

on my lower lip, a self

sweet nothing whisper like a kite

flying in the alley

for only a sprint.

I have felt my finite,

entirely in tired aches

and yet,

I'm convinced that if you

put me in a field with no edge

it couldn't contain me.