and in the howl of the barren trees, the roar of tides in the bitter wind, all of this emptiness in which we sink⸺ i can’t seem to remember my promises to any supposed spring nor the warmth of the tears that’d kissed your rosen cheeks
and as the tides rush in
through the hush of the trees,
sea of the dead,
you raise your branches towards the wintry sun,
salt in your eyes, air in your lungs,
the taste of our blossoming dreams on your tongue;
and,
and in the arms of my slumbering,
slumbering sea,
in the wake of blooming,
blooming days
that have passed by me,
quietly,
unknowingly,
i drown.