stratigrapher by Mahogany L. Browne
there's these rocks i found after you left
sometimes, i stuff them in my pocket
finger the cold roundness; the sharp curve of the ridge,
it reminds me of your tongue, how it cut me into parts
with little effort.
i keep them next to the silence and
it's almost like you are still here.
sometimes, i stuff them in my pocket
finger the cold roundness; the sharp curve of the ridge,
it reminds me of your tongue, how it cut me into parts
with little effort.
i keep them next to the silence and
it's almost like you are still here.