The air is gelid, it's as if I’ve touched the spiraled stove again. This time it’s all over. I rock on my heels, matching the tempo of the passing seconds. I wait until the warmth encases me. My nails become brittle, they crack; crescent fragments sink into glass. It is a familiar feeling, waiting.
Waiting for the School Bus
More by MillieMilesinTheWild
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Poetry Practice: Night to Dawn
In the still of night,
Shadows dance and play.
Soft moonlight fades,
As stars begin to sway.
Silent whispers ofDarkness start to fade;
As first light of dawn
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Wisp Wind
You've left me alone
But the world keeps on spinning
I am bleeding endlessly.
And I don’t know what to do.
I forget the color of your eyes
And the smell of your mountain breath.
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Red Clover
I dream of him less than I used to –
But our story always starts the same.
I am small, and his oil-stained hands hold me like the Red Clover,
So tightly that I think he’ll never let me go.
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