Stories line my body like unlit streets of
the city, dark and unassuming of their
importance, old men on the pavements
cherishing an untouched caress from an
unhappier time when they couldn't just kiss.
Their lips are chapped and withered and their
eyes water with rheumatic and regrets.
No cars come by, and the few ghosts that
linger know enough to keep a secret, they don't
care much either way, being wasted souls
blinded by ennui.
YOU ARE READING
Opus
Poetrya lonely Saturday conversation on the wrong side of the yellow bedroom curtains. ... || Wattys Winner 2018 ||
