elise.writer

I think the weather is lost.
When she walks, she trips over something the rest of us can't see, something that makes her crumple to the ground.

Every step I take
Every move I make
is not done without purpose.
These stepping stones handcrafted
with intention,
in Desire's frothing stew, with
a spicing of perseverance
to top it off.
Every day, I let the memory

and I hate it.

The sour leftovers
of mascara still cling to my eyelashes,
nostalgia clutching them along for the ride,
so I don't wash it off
until the memories peel my skin away
and gnaw through my heart,

I think the weather is in pain.
When he walks, his head is hung, stature reeking of sour defeat, because he just can't break the snow threshold. He wants it so badly.

My overpriced Staples planner
doesn't have a millimeter of space
adorning any one of its pages,
I swear. Each line is written in some
sort of miscroscopic font to fit
each clumsy letter, it's like
hieroglyphics. Coffee and cocoa