crisp air,
rosy cheeks
and the tip of my nose as well.
rows of crows singing misunderstood
on top of my head
my hands hold this pen
while i think of all the Christmases I have left.
the sound of my steps
on this spent sidewalk
echoes melodies of my childhood,
this little town a coat so warm and worn.
walls stained of greasy memories and packed with stories,
my hands flowing with poems i never held.
the wind in my hair won't ever be the same.
YOU ARE READING
notes app of a teenage girl
PoetryI depend on words and commas: a sleepy french toast and my lover's perfect flaws. a collection of poems, songs, thoughts, stories, and made-up scenarios of an Italian queer teenage girl who finds comfort in writing. I apologize for any errors, engli...
