Something I wrote in November, about a memory from November:
The aches of crying birds cloud your sweet dreams,
they sleep on your pillowcase with nests built in your brain.
Their soft underbellies beg for a buffer from the words leaving the mouths of craned necks with open lungs.
I'll run my fingers over you once--my skin can't hold the fire.
Created: Jul 23, 2010Document Media