Flying sparks I miss.
First peach,
First breath,
First kiss.
Hot rod to the touch,
burnt my hand on such.
It told me how I’ll hurt,
the crumbled ash on dirt.
Church chime fades into the rum.
Routine comes and up leaves fun.
Leftovers smelling better than,
The actual bite so dry and bland.
'Cuase you can’t force connection plans,
When here are two with slipping hands.
Burnt up in racing memory,
But stuck in dreams of all could be.
-
Author:
Urgirl_martini (
Online) - Published: October 4th, 2026 09:16
- Comment from author about the poem: Everything feels exciting in the beginning...
- Category: Friendship
- Views: 2
Online)
Comments1
Got overtly creative with this one... might have lost cohesive meaning in the process. 😅
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.