We crack clouds on our knuckles and spill peeling paint on honeysuckles. Brows crooked; rivers and bridges, boats dilapidated oars lost since ages. Voices echo through the pale skin tears shadow like ocean's oil spills. Parched floor stays above skinny gorges in colours of greys, of winds, of surges. And then we say we miss each other. Missed. Mhhm. Ps. Do NOT take the bg into consideration in relation to the poem. I just liked it, lol. #theunsungquill #poetry
